Fly Away Home
by WikketKrikket
Summary: Martin makes a mistake that risks the lives of his passengers and his colleagues. Losing confidence, he quits MJN Air, leaving them with his replacement; soon decided to be the worst man on Earth. But Martin has a new job and it's going well, so how can they persuade him to come back? And should they even try, when Martin Crief is finally becoming a success?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Another Cabin Pressure fic? Oh my XD But I'm excited about the new series coming next week and it's got me inspired! This is based from some RPs with the wonderful Blackthorn14, and although it starts as a sick fic, I promise it'll move away from that later. In fact, I'll post the first two chapters together and get it all out of the way. :P This fic will be several short chapters, which should mean I can update more regulary. So, pausing only to say that I obviously don't own Cabin Pressure, let's get underway!

Chapter One

Twenty minutes until they landed in Fitton, Martin realised his first officer was asleep. He decided to let him off; the landing was perfectly routine and it was only the return from a cargo flight. Anyway, it might be nice to have some quiet for a change. That said, this had been the quietest trip they'd ever had; Douglas hadn't made a single quip and the word game they had embarked upon had been incredibly short lived. He was looking rather grey and pale, most definitely coming down with something, even though, by his own announcement, he 'never got sick'. Martin couldn't help but smirk. He was fine, fit as a fiddle, and he was going to do the landing completely solo.

It wasn't that he resented Douglas as such, it was just that his first officer definitely got unfair chances to show off. Every time the slightest bit of tricky flying loomed on the horizon, either Douglas or Carolyn would make him relinquish control to his junior officer. It was humiliating. Being the captain at MJN seemed like the aerial equivalent of being a lunchbox monitor in Primary School, just something to keep him quiet and out of the way. He had complained about it to Carolyn, asking how he was ever supposed to prove himself if he was never given the chance, to which she had replied that she was running an airline, not _Britain's Got Talent_, and she wasn't the slightest bit interested in him proving himself. And that, as usual, had been that.

The landing today was straight forward enough, nothing he hadn't done a hundred times before, but this time he would do it without the sarcastic remarks and commentary from his co-pilot. He'd execute a perfect landing, and prove to everyone that he was perfectly competent.

"Anything else you want me to do before landing, Skip?" Arthur asked, appearing on the flight deck. He always came along on cargo flights even if his only jobs would be making coffee and the loading and unloading, and usually spent the majority of the flight hanging around behind the two pilots. Today, however, Douglas had relegated him to the galley, snapping that his chirruping was giving him a headache. Indeed, Arthur had entered rather cautiously and was hovering in the doorway, ready for a quick exit.

"It's alright, Arthur, you can come in." Martin said. "The dragon is sleeping."

"What?" Arthur pottered in for a closer look. "Oh… is he okay? He doesn't normally fall asleep on trips, or be so… shouty."

"He's fine." Martin said, unable to deny that he was enjoying himself just a little. "He's probably just getting a little, well, old. I suppose he just can't cope with these long trips like he used to."

"Aww." Arthur said. "Well, as long as he's okay. Shall I go and prepare for landing?"

Martin nodded, wondering what on earth Arthur had to do to prepare for landing on a cargo flight other than strapping himself in somewhere, but decided not to ask. They made the approach to Fitton and he landed, perfectly. Douglas woke up as the landing gear made first contact with the runway and blinked, looking a little dazed, and not very Douglas-like.

"Good morning." Martin said. "I just landed us in Fitton. Did you enjoy your snooze?"

"Not particularly." Douglas said, which seemed to be the pithiest remark he could come up with. He was obviously a little embarrassed.

"Oh, don't worry, it was a routine landing, and I used to fall asleep on trips home all the time." Martin said. "When I was four, in the back of my parents' Volvo."

"Oh, shut up." Douglas snapped, and Martin noticed his eyes were rimmed with red. He really didn't look at all well. Martin finally relented.

"Come on." He said. "Let's lock up and go and find a coffee in the portacabin."

When they arrived in the office, Carolyn was about as sympathetic as Martin had been initially. "Why, Douglas," She said, sweetly. "You're finally starting to look your age. Have you really been gone for ten years or is that just the result of ten minutes in conversation with Arthur?"

"Hey!" Arthur protested.

"Be quiet, Carolyn, it's just a cold, that I have probably caught from your flying petri dish of bacteria." Douglas sat down wearily. "Arthur, just get me a coffee."

"Righto, Douglas. Anyone else want one?"

They did, and after a few moments of Arthur noisily bustling around on the worktop, they each held a passable cup of coffee. Martin set his aside without looking up, having turned his attention to the log book. His attention was soon arrested, however, by the sight of Douglas hurrying past him into the small bathroom, soon followed by the unmistakable sound of someone puking their guts out. He had only had one sip of coffee. Martin flinched sympathetically. He couldn't stand sick, whether it was seeing it, smelling it, hearing it or producing it. The three remaining crew members looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Was it something in the coffee?" Arthur said finally, worried.

"I just don't think he's very well." Martin said, trying not to flinch again at the sound of retching.

"Yes, that might be an understatement, Martin." Carolyn said, banging on the bathroom door. "Douglas? Are you alright?"

"Not really, Carolyn, no." Douglas replied, with something almost like a groan. They heard him coughing, then being sick again.

"Should I get the ambulance crew?" Arthur asked.

"Oh, don't be silly. He must be almost finished now." Carolyn said, as they heard Douglas coughing in the next room. "Just get him some water. Martin, you'll have to give him a ride home, if he drives he'll crash."

"Of course." Martin said, nodding. "I'll take him home in his car and then if you follow, Carolyn, you can bring me back here for my van."

"Oh, no, we needn't bother with all that. Just take him in your van."

"Why?"

"Because, Martin, if he projectile vomits en route it will matter the least in that pile of scrap metal you drive round in."

Martin was very offended at this. His van was old, yes, and always one gear change away from permanent death, but he cleaned it every week without fail. He was about to protest this when an extremely grumpy Douglas emerged and accepted the water without a word. Martin shut his mouth again. He couldn't refuse to help when he could see it was needed. There was no better evidence of this than the fact that Douglas accepted a lift without argument. They sat in the van in silence. Martin half suspected Douglas would have fallen asleep again, if it hadn't been for the terrible suspension and ancient rattling engine. They were almost back when he noticed Douglas running a hand over his mouth.

"Do you need me to stop?" He asked, rather alarmed. He definitely did not want vomit over his van.

"No." Douglas shook his head. "I was just thinking that this is the first time I've thrown up since New Year's Eve 1999."

"Ah, gave up drinking for the Millennium, did you?" Martin asked.

"No. If you must know, I gave up drinking when my daughter was born. I had a few last hoorahs in the new century, I just held it better." Martin laughed and they went on in silence until he pulled up outside the house.

"Thank you, Martin."

"Are you going to be alright on your own?" Martin asked suddenly, thinking about how Douglas' house would be completely empty and how badly he had been sick.

"Martin, if you're offering to come in and nurse me then-"

"No! No. Sorry, but no. I just mean… are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Douglas said irritably. "Probably just a bit of food poisoning from the ghastly microwave meals Carolyn lovingly provides us with. At least, you better hope it is, Captain."

"Why?"

"Because if it's a virus," Douglas croaked. "You've just spent several hours locked in a small metal room with it." He slammed the van door shut and turned to throw up again into one of his rose bushes. Martin, studiously looking the other way, got out of the van and grabbed his keys from his hand, going to get the front door open. Douglas followed him in a moment later, looking a hundred years older.

"Thank you, Martin. Now go away." He said, and abruptly disappeared into the downstairs bathroom. Not sure what to do, Martin hovered awkwardly for a moment, then fetched a glass of water and left it on the side with Douglas' keys, before leaving the first officer to it.

He stopped to buy some oranges on the way home. His diet wasn't great at the best of times, and right now his immune system probably needed the vitamins.

Ooooooooooooooo

Martin was in his room on Saturday morning, reading the _Bromsgrove Standard _that had been pushed through the door, when his phone started ringing. Carolyn's name appeared on the ancient screen and he groaned. They weren't supposed to have another job until Monday, why couldn't she leave him alone? It was tempting not to pick up, but he did. After all, with GERTI, you never knew when another bit would fall off and she would need to know whether he could fix it or if she needed a proper engineer. On this occasion, however, it wasn't their plane causing the problem.

"Hello, Carolyn." He said cautiously.

"Good morning, Martin. How are you? Feeling well I hope?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Why?" Martin asked.

"Good. Is there any chance you could come down to the airfield today and give me a hand with the books? I have to cancel the flight on Monday and I need to work out how on earth we're going to afford to refund them."

"Wait, cancel the flight?" Martin said, alarmed. "Why? Douglas will probably be fine by then."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong." Carolyn said sweetly. "I see you haven't heard. It seems after several hours of exploding violently from every orifice our first officer had the good sense to call himself an ambulance."

"Oh, goodness, that's awful. Is he alright?"

"Well, he sounded like death on the phone and didn't seem entirely sure of who he was talking to, but I'm sure he'll survive." Carolyn said briskly. "Some aggressive form of the neurovirus, apparently. He said he should be out on Monday, but after that it's two weeks of complete rest or he'd be infecting us and all the passengers. Hence my question- Are you alright?"

"Fine, I'm fine." Martin said, although typically as soon as he'd thought about it his stomach had started to clench with anxiety. "What about Arthur? He was on board too."

"Oh, Arthur is fine, bouncing around with all guns blazing insisting we go to visit Douglas later. Anyway, come and help with the accounts, will you? At the moment I can't see any way we can give them a full refund."

"So don't cancel the flight." Martin said.

"Martin, have you listened to a word I've said? Have you forgotten that Douglas won't be there?"

"No, have you forgotten I'm also a fully qualified pilot?" Martin snapped irritably. "Look, we'll have to cancel the Florida run next week, there isn't much I can do about that, but Monday's flight is only over to France. I'll be well within my legal flying hours and it's a routine trip, I've done it a hundred times; and if we do that it might give us just enough in hand to refund the Americans."

Carolyn considered this in silence. "We can't, Martin, I'm sorry." She said, finally. "It's just too risky. We never know what might happen."

"Please, Carolyn, just trust me!" Martin tried, his heart pounding. He knew she was right, that he shouldn't insist, but he couldn't help it. He knew that if Douglas had said it, she would have agreed, and he needed to show her, to prove that he could do it just as well as anyone else. Perhaps if he just did this, they would finally start taking him seriously. "I mean, come on, we can't really afford not to and you know I'll be safer than Douglas ever is."

"Oh, alright!" Carolyn gave in. "But I'm coming with you. I don't trust you and Arthur alone with a plane full of little old ladies."

"Oh, right, of course, because the Fitton WI are known to be such trouble makers."

"No arguments, Martin. We're a crew member down already, I'm coming to keep an eye on things. I'm not convinced this is a good idea and the only way it's prevented from being a terrible idea is that I will be there."

"Fine…"

"Good. Then I will see you on Monday, so help us." With that, she hung up. Martin set his phone aside, feeling his determination strengthen. Carolyn would be there, it was a good thing. She would see him cope, see him fly so well on his own that next time, she would believe in him a little more. Martin knew he wasn't a bad pilot, he just needed the others to see that.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Martin had been very satisfied with the trip so far. It had been a nice easy run; the passengers had proved to be a group of amicable and well behaved older women, who called him 'Captain' and Arthur a 'nice young man' and seemed suitably impressed by both of them. It had been a straight forward little hop across the English Channel to France, and then they had left the WI at Paris airport to make their way to Disneyland, and the three of them had a nice fifteen hour stop over to spend as they pleased. Carolyn and Arthur had gone off to see the sights, but Martin felt there were only so many times he could see the Eiffel Tower with Arthur and had decided to spend some time relaxing at the hotel instead. His body was craving sleep, and it was making his head hurt, so he decided to have a little nap. It must have turned into a longer nap, however, because he woke to the sound of someone knocking on his door, and it was already dark.

"Um, yes?" He said, sitting up and attempting to straighten his clothes.

"Come on, Skipper!" Arthur said, with his usual level of enthusiasm. "Mum says if you don't get downstairs for dinner in the next five minutes, we're going to eat without you."

"I'll be right there. I was just, um, finishing my chapter." Martin said, taking his novel out of his overnight bag and putting it noticeably onto the bedside table. He smoothed his bed head out quickly with a comb, trying to ignore the fact that every movement sent a jolt of pain through his head.

_Just dehydration, that's all_. He told himself firmly. _Plenty of water at dinner time and you'll be fine._

He went down to dinner and drank plenty, but found he didn't have much of an appetite for food. Halfway through his meal, he could feel it beginning to curdle inside him. He rearranged it on the plate for a while to make it seem like he had eaten more, then pushed it away. Carolyn's eagle eyes, however, missed nothing.

"Problems, Martin?" She asked.

"No, no problems." Martin said hastily. "It's just… just this food! It's horrible!"

"Horrible?" Carolyn echoed. "Why, what's wrong with it? It seems fine to me."

"Yes, well, perhaps I just have higher standards."

"Alright, fine, if you want to be a snob, Martin, you can go hungry." Carolyn seemed to consider the matter closed and the conversation, to Martin's relief, moved on. His head was starting to spin, but he was sure a good night's rest was all he needed. He turned in early, as soon as dinner was over, and fell asleep instantly. He was always more tired if he slept in the middle of the day. In the morning, he would be absolutely fine.

He was wrong, of course. 'Absolutely fine' was absolutely the last thing he was. Everything hurt, especially his head. The little midi that was the alarm on his phone felt like every electronic pulse was punching right through him and for a moment longer he lay in bed, unable to do anything except flinch at every beat. Finally, he found the strength to fumble and turn it off. It had obviously been going off for some time, it seemed incredibly loud in the confines of his hotel room. He lay back, shivering.

He had to get up. Martin could feel the truth of this circulating in his blood, which seemed exceptionably loud that morning. If it was morning, he didn't feel as if he'd slept at all. But he had to get up, the truth of this was also churning in his stomach, and, he felt, was going to attempt to make it's escape if he sat up too quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was get up. But if he didn't, the WI would be stranded, and paying for their hotels would bankrupt MJN Air, and Carolyn would kill him, or worse, fire him. Carolyn always acted like she was doing him a favour by letting him fly; she knew it was the most important thing on earth to him. He had to get up. If nothing else, he wanted to get home to bed. He most definitely did not want to be stuck in a strange hotel in Paris.

Martin got to his feet, and the dizziness and the urge to vomit almost overtook him, but with a few controlled breaths it soon subsided, and he began to feel more clear-headed. He would be fine once he had been awake a while, and even better once he got home. For a moment he felt a pang of homesickness, the sudden longing to return to the cosy, childish room he had grown up in, with his mom there making a fuss and bringing him cups of tea and dry pieces of toast, instead of the draughty attic, where the kids only knocked on his door to ask for favours. He took a few more deep breaths and the self-pity disappeared, replaced by resolution. He could fly them all home. He would fly them all home. He was a Captain, and a good one, and he was done being told he was incompetent. He could do this, he would prove it to himself; to all of them.

Carolyn, however, was not as convinced. When Martin finally made it downstairs, she took one look at him and said "Oh, great."

"What?" Martin was immediately defensive. "I'm fine, I am totally fine."

"Sit down before you fall over." Carolyn said impatiently. "You can't fly."

"Of course I can fly! I'm fine, totally fine."

"Yes, you've said that. And yet, it doesn't change the fact that you look like a reanimated corpse."

"Like Frankenstein." Arthur said, helpfully.

"Thank you, Arthur, I got that." Martin snapped. "And as charming a compliment as it is, you don't need to worry, because I'm perfectly well."

"You don't look it." Arthur said. "And you're all snappy, like Douglas was before he got sick." "I'm not snappy and I'm not sick!"

"Oh, give it a rest, Martin." Carolyn was not pleased. "I assume you realise how much this is going to cost. We can only hope the WI are feeling charitable and don't demand a refund because of the delay, it will be hard enough to pay the extra hotel bill-"

"Carolyn, we don't need to delay!" Martin sighed. "Alright, I'm a little under the weather, but it's just a cold! I've flown with one before! And I haven't been sick or anything, I'll probably be fine once I've woken up!"

"Hmm, yes, forgive me Martin, but I'm not sure I want you in sole control of an aircraft when you may pass out at any given moment."

"I'm not going to pass out!" Martin said. "Carolyn, I can do this. Trust me."

Carolyn raised an eyebrow. "Well, Martin, if you can manage a full and hearty breakfast without regurgitating it or falling asleep on the plate, I might consider it." She hadn't intended it to be taken seriously, but Martin appeared to take it as a challenge and ordered a bacon sandwich, his usual choice, with considerable gutso. The ordering took all his energy however, and the only thing keeping him awake was Carolyn's ever-watchful eye and vivid imaginings about how Douglas would mock him and the idea of the alternative to flying home; of staying here in a two-star hotel with questionable tea and only one pillow on the beds- no, it didn't bear thinking about. If he didn't do this, they would never trust him as captain again, never listen to his instincts as a pilot again. He persevered with the bacon sandwich, which tasted like polystyrene; and he couldn't be sure whether that was the quality of the food or the peculiar dryness in his mouth. He wasn't nearly as bad as Douglas, the sandwich stayed where it was and he could almost fool himself it had settled his stomach having put something in it. There was only one shaky moment when he finished off the dregs of his tea and thought something might be making a return, but he swallowed hard, disguised it as a cough, and got away with it.

"Satisfied?" He asked Carolyn. "Honestly, you shouldn't make such a fuss. If I wasn't well enough to fly, I'd know."

He did know, of course. But knowing and accepting were two very different things, and Martin Crief was nothing if not stubborn.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

The flight deck was covered in vomit and it was freaking Martin out. He couldn't stand the smell of it, or the taste or the sight, and it was all over the console.

Except it wasn't. He just had to swallow and blink, swallow and blink, take a deep breath and the flight deck was magically cleared. He was either having low level hallucinations or he was falling asleep at the controls and dreaming, neither of which were a good thing.

_Get a grip_, _Martin. _He told himself. _Nearly home. _Unfortunately, getting a grip was easier said than done. His hands were sweating, he could barely keep hold of the control column. But he _could _do it, he would, because in his mind, the success of this trip was now equivalent to his worth as a pilot, and his addled brain was too fevered to think the logic of this out.

_Concentrate on the flying. Check the instruments. Fly home. _

His movements were slow, laboured; he felt like the air was thick and his movements were drunken, as if he was underwater. Perhaps he was. It would certainly explain the pain coming from his bad ear, and the dizziness.

The thing was, he would do much better if he could just take a little break. A short nap, and he would be far more able to concentrate because his eyes wouldn't be burning so badly and perhaps his headache would clear and his stomach would settle. And then he would be safer to fly. Decision made, Martin allowed his eyes to sag shut.

Just before he fell completely asleep, the reality of what he was doing struck him and he sat up straight in a panic, gasping for breath, clumsy fingers fumbling without conscious thought on the controls. The pain in his head was unbearable now and he had moved too fast, and his unsettled stomach had had enough. There was no time to try and swallow it down, he was throwing up before he even realised it was going to happen, with nothing to catch it with other than his hands, which unfortunately had gone instinctively to his mouth.

_This, _Martin thought dully as he coughed into his soiled fingers, _Is the most revolting thing I have ever done. _Then he thought _The plane! _He gripped the controls determinedly, tensing, ready to pull them out of a nosedive, but they didn't seem to be in one. It didn't feel like one. Should he pull back just in case? No, they had instruments for this, they could tell him, and they seemed to be telling him that they were level. Right. Good. If he was reading them properly, it was hard to tell past the sweat building in his eyes. Had Douglas been this bad? Perhaps it was different for everyone. Douglas had definitely thrown up more.

The thought was enough and Martin found he was throwing up again, with nowhere to aim but down the side of his chair. Carolyn was going to kill him, but it was unstoppable; not so much a flow as a tidal wave, crashing over a flood barrier. For some minutes there was nothing he could do but hang grimly onto the controls, hoping that nothing went wrong, and try to keep his head to the side. Some still went in his lap, and the wetness and the smell turned his stomach all over again, until finally he realised it had stopped, and he was retching dryly. He felt weak and shaky, if only with relief. He had to straighten up. He had to fly the plane. He had fifteen people in the back relying on him. If he crashed, he would kill fifteen people. He had to land, but Fitton was the nearest airfield, and Fitton was still too far, and the vomiting was starting again as he panicked, and his ear-

"Skipper!"

Arthur. But Martin couldn't pay attention to him, he had to fly the plane. And concentrate on breathing. But the smell, the smell was too much. His head span.

"Skip, are you okay?"

Martin thought he might be being sick again. He seemed to have lost track of what he was doing, and Arthur seemed miles away. In his peripheral vision, he thought he saw Arthur pick up the radio to talk to ATC, but Arthur never did that. He couldn't.

"Um, um, Mayday, Mayday! This is Golf-Tango-India, we have a serious medical emergency on board, our sole pilot is down, repeat our sole pilot is down, requesting priority landing Fitton!"

Martin wanted to laugh. He had obviously reached the stage of delirium, if Arthur was being professional.

"Roger, Golf-Tango-India, continue as cleared, emergency crews on standby. Is your pilot fit to land?"

"Um, I don't know, um… Skip?"

"Of course I can land." Martin murmured. "I always land. My landings are fine."

"It's just, you don't seem very well, Skip."

Martin couldn't help but laugh at this, but the laughing made him be sick again, and made his head spin, and he heard Arthur yelling for his mum in a panic. The rest was all rather a blur.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: A very short chapter this time, but this is just where it seemed to divide best, so here we go! I'll just be posting little bits at a time as they're written, but I'm trying to keep a chapter ahead of myself. I'm hoping to get another up before Monday, but then I'm back at university, so I can't guarantee how quick the updates will be… anyway, enjoy!

Chapter Three

"Martin? Hello, Martin?"

Martin woke up slowly, aware first of the weight of a blanket pulled up over his shoulders, and then of the plastic tube running into his wrist. He looked at in confusion.

"Oh, don't worry, it's just some water and some anti-vomiting medication, to stop you purging yourself to death. You're in Fitton Hospital."

Martin looked at Douglas in confusion, trying to work out what they were both doing there. Then he remembered all at once.

"Ah! Did I crash the plane?!" He demanded, struggling to sit up. "Oh no, oh no, is it alright? And Arthur? And Carolyn? Oh no, oh no…"

"For goodness' sake, calm down. Gerti is fine, along with all who flew in her. From what I understand, you made a quite spectacular emergency landing whilst only semi-conscious. I always knew thinking too much was your problem."

"I don't…" Martin began, trying to sit up, but a wave of dizziness overtook him, and he fell back down again. Douglas looked sympathetically amused.

"I'd lie still if I were you, Captain. The dizziness is bad enough without that inner ear of yours making it worse."

"I don't understand." Martin croaked. "What are you doing here? What happened?"

"Well, the first part is simple enough." Douglas said cheerfully. "Carolyn may have told you I was supposed to have been discharged yesterday, but when they tried to give me something solid to eat before I left, that was put an end to rather quickly. This evening, however, they were quite satisfied to send me on my merry way and there I was, signing discharge papers at the nurses' station, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but an unconscious Captain Crief, returning from his first solo flight accompanied by what appears to have been the entirety of the Fitton Airfield medical crew, who, I daresay, were rather pleased to finally have something to do."

Martin risked a glance at Douglas. It didn't fill him with confidence. While he undoubtedly looked better than he had that day on the plane, he looked exhausted still, and rather pale. It was like looking into his own future, and rather bleak it was.

"Anyway, naturally I gave Carolyn a ring to see what was happening."

Martin groaned. "She's going to kill me. What did she say?"

"I didn't speak to her, apparently she was busy trying to smooth everything over with the WI, who were rather alarmed by the ambulance. No, I spoke to Arthur. Are you some kind of idiot?"

The abrupt shift of tone surprised Martin, but he couldn't say anything against the accusation, or the cold disapproval. He wormed further down under the blankets, wishing they could swallow him entirely.

"You were lucky, Martin. It sounds like it's a miracle you didn't crash."

"How... how did I…?" Martin swallowed. "I don't remember anything. I thought I'd blacked out."

"According to Arthur, you'd switched the autopilot on at some point, that kept you going for a while. Then they kept you awake while you landed."

"I managed to land it?"

"Rather smoothly too, it seems. It looks like your instincts are fine when all that bluster stops getting in the way."

Martin said nothing. What could he say? It all seemed so big, too big, too overwhelming. He swallowed. He wanted to be sick, but not in front of Douglas. He closed his eyes. Douglas took it as his cue to leave.

"I'm afraid you're in for a rough few days, Captain, not in the least because of the probable visit from Arthur; but it does get better." He said bracingly, getting to his feet. "And some of the nurses are rather attractive at least, so do try to be charming; you never know."

Martin groaned and burrowed further into his pillows. He found it impossible to be charming at the best of times, let alone when he was vomiting at every opportunity.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Well, this is a fine mess you've landed us in, Martin." Carolyn sniffed by way of greeting. "You realise MJN now has no pilots at all? I'll have to cancel Florida and now we won't even be able to do Quebec the week after because you won't be back. The whole thing has turned into a complete nightmare."

Martin hesitated. Carolyn and Arthur had literally only just arrived, and it didn't seem fair to spring it on them out of the blue, although the decision he had come to after a miserable sleepless night couldn't be a surprise. He just had to work up to it.

"Hey, Skip." Arthur said, in a kind of theatrical hushed tone. Evidently he had been told not to overdo it. Martin doubted it would last. "How are you feeling?"

"Awful." Martin said. The sleepless night and the illness would be bad enough on their own, but with the decision he had made, _had _to make, meant it was possibly the worst day of his life.

"Aww, but you'll be better soon, Douglas is! You'll both be recovered and back on board Gerti before you know it!"

Martin couldn't build up to it. He couldn't bear it. He just had to do it quickly, like ripping off a plaster, except ripping off something much more important, and much more painfully. He blurted it out. "No, I won't. Arthur, Carolyn, I'm not coming back."

"Not coming back where?" Arthur asked, nervously.

"To Gerti, Arthur. I'm not coming back to Gerti." He made himself look Carolyn in the eye and he spelt it out. "I quit, Carolyn, I'm sorry, but I quit. I'm not coming back to MJN air."

Silence greeted this. Arthur gaped wordlessly, but recovered first.

"What?! Skipper, you can't! You absolutely can't! Of course you'll come back…"

"No I won't, Arthur."

"But you always come back, even when we've had a really bad trip or Gerti breaks down or Douglas has been really mean."

"Not this time."

"I suppose," Carolyn interrupted, tight-lipped. "That I at least get some form of explanation?"

"You know why." Martin said, miserably.

"Oh, Martin, don't be so ridiculous." Carolyn snapped.

"I'm not!" Martin protested. "Carolyn, we both know what I did was… was unforgivably reckless! I knew I was ill and I insisted on flying anyway, seriously endangering both your lives and all the passengers. You can't seriously be saying that if I was a proper- well, if I was paid, I wouldn't be fired, or, or at least suspended! Only you won't do it because I'm cheap, and I can't let you risk the safety of passengers or crew because of me, so I have to do it, I have to quit!" The frustration and panic in his voice was enough to show his upset at this decision, but he remained firm.

"Martin." Carolyn said, trying to remain calm. "First of all, you really are being ridiculous. You are a safe pilot, you are MJN's safe pilot. If Douglas quit every time he did something reckless he wouldn't have made it through the first week. You made one bad decision while your judgement was impaired by a fever high enough to heat the entire aeroplane. If anyone is to blame for this fiasco, it's me for letting you persuade me."

"I'm sorry Carolyn, but I mean it. I'm not coming back."

"Martin. Be reasonable. Up until now your performance has been… well, entirely adequate, or at least as adequate as anything else in an airline with a single decrepit old plane, a criminal first officer and an idiot for a steward. But you're right, I hired you because you were cheap, and things have only got worse since then. Do you realise what it'll mean for MJN Air if you leave? I can't afford to get anyone else in, I can't run a business with only one pilot. If you leave, Martin, then that's it for all of us."

"No it's not." Martin sighed. "You'd find a way, or Douglas will think of something. But I have to go, Carolyn, I can't risk myself in the air again. We were lucky this time, we may not be again. I can't risk it."

"But, Skipper, you love flying." Arthur protested weakly.

"I know." Martin rolled over, his back to them now. "I know, Arthur, but that doesn't mean I'm any good at it. It's about time I realised that."

Annoyed beyond words at Martin's self pity, but most of all by his stubbornness, Carolyn marched out without another word. Arthur hovered, awkwardly.

"Bye, Skip." He said eventually, sounding close to tears. "Hope you feel better soon." He went after his mother, leaving Martin alone with his thoughts. Martin found that they were not very good company.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Landing checks complete."

"Very good, prepare to land. Thank you, Douglas. Now you just sit back and try not to breathe in my direction."

Douglas gritted his teeth and said nothing. He was back at MJN, having just gone to Florida and back, in spite of the fact he wasn't fully recovered. The reason for this was Martin, having a silly crisis of confidence at the worst possible time; except on this occasion he had supposedly resigned and would not be swayed. Well, Douglas hadn't had a go at persuading him yet, but he had decided to leave it another week or two anyway, by which point he suspected Captain Crief would be begging to come back. In the meantime, he had been forced to come in himself, well before the end of the two weeks recommended by his doctors, because unfortunately the little airline now needed every penny they could get, and she couldn't afford to cancel Florida. Hercules had been pulled in as an emergency favour to get them to the States and back, and was, for the purposes of the trip, designated captain. Douglas had not been impressed, and being stuck in the flight deck with Herc was almost twenty-four hours there and back had not been his idea of fun. Still, they were back now at least. Thank goodness.

"Hello boys." Carolyn said as they entered the office. "Well, you'll be pleased to know that with that trip, MJN will just about make it into next month. I really can't thank you enough, Hercules."

"No, I rather didn't think you could." Herc purred back. Douglas rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, I have good news." Carolyn said cheerfully. "Our pilot problems are solved."

"Really? Brilliant!" Arthur stepped forward eagerly. "Is Martin coming back?"

"No."

"But-"

"I've found us another pilot." She paused dramatically. "Who will also fly for free."

"What? How? Who?" Douglas frowned at this. They had all agreed that Martin, being Martin, would undoubtedly come to his senses; and probably sooner rather than later. But here she was, after only a week, announcing that she had somehow found a replacement and smirking at her masterstroke.

"Online." She said, fondly. "The internet is a wonderful place, isn't it? I advertised for a fully-qualified pilot to work for free, and within a few hours I had a reply. His name is Montague, Morris Montague. He took an early retirement from an airline a year or two ago but has since found he misses the call of the open skies. We'll still have to cancel Quebec because he can't start until the end of the month, but after that we should be fine. Boys, we're back in business."

"Brilliant!" Arthur cheered. "Um, but what about Martin?"

"Who cares?" Carolyn replied coldly. "I'm sorry Arthur, but he brought this on himself. Anyway, it's been a week now and we haven't heard a thing."

Douglas, however, had other concerns. "And what job did you hire him for, Carolyn?"

"Captain, obviously." Carolyn said, daring him to argue.

"Obviously." Douglas made no further comment. He simply didn't have the energy.

ooooooooooooooo

Martin, meanwhile, was torturing himself. Not with a van job this time; he had eventually cancelled the two or three he had lined up when he realised that however much he needed the money, he couldn't handle people's stuff and risk infecting them. He shivered miserably and huddled further into his old coat, wishing they would put better heating into this place and feeling slightly queasy again. No, he wouldn't wish this on anyone.

Of course, technically speaking, he shouldn't even have been here; but after several days of just being ill and unable to do anything but lie there and turn things over and over in his mind, he had been feeling much improved and needed to get out of the house. Almost without thinking, he had gone where he always did when he needed comfort, keeping his gloved hands in his pockets and trying not to breathe on anything too much. He loved these exhibits, the old planes on display at the Ducksford Air Museum, and always came here for encouragement when he was feeling downhearted. His parents had brought him his first year of membership back when he was sixteen, and since then his sister had renewed it every year as his birthday present. It meant he could get in for free; something valuable to those with a limited cash flow. As such, Martin came here a lot. He just hoped that one day he wouldn't have to come here alone, that he would have someone to share his enthusiasm, his knowledge with; that when he lost himself amongst the planes he would have someone to get lost with him. He liked the way he could forget about life for a while amongst the relics of the past, and he wanted to share it.

Today, however, the planes were no comfort to him at all; in fact they made everything worse. He had been a fool not to think it, not to realise that walking through all the wings of the ages would remind him that he would never fly again. He had thought more than once during the week about swallowing his pride, calling Carolyn, but how could he trust himself? It was all very well to say he wouldn't do it again, but he hadn't thought he would make such a risky decision to begin with. After all, it was his pride, his ego, that had made him do it; and that wouldn't just go away. The second he was back in the Captain's seat, there would be nothing to stop him from just doing the exact same thing again.

He found the statue of Icarus that stood near the gift shop and looked at it for some time. He used to find it amazing, to think of the striving of mankind, the perseverance in the face of adversity, the courage to at least try to do what everyone said couldn't be done. That was why he had called his company Icarus, after all. Today, though, he could only think of pride, arrogance and failure. He sighed. It had been a bad idea to come here. He turned round and headed through the gift shop, which was the only way through to the exit.

The shop itself was a large one, larger than was justified by the fairly quiet air museum. It had used to be just a small kiosk in the corner, but then, in an attempt to get a few more pounds out of people, it had expanded; a few of the smaller planes being moved elsewhere or put into storage to make room for it. Now the shop was a reasonable size, and open to everyone, even those who did not have a ticket for the museum. In fact, the Air museum souvenirs were confined to the back wall and the space immediately before it, with the rest of the shop dedicated in part to general tourist things like postcards and local history, not that Fitton got many tourists, and the rest to general gifts, from cookbooks to paperweights, plants to candles. When Martin thought about it, it was a bit of an odd shop, but it did reasonable trade, mostly from the surrounding farms and villages who couldn't be bothered to drive all the way into Fitton proper just to get a last-minute birthday present.

"Alright, Martin! Back again mate?"

Martin reluctantly turned at the cheerful welsh accent. He was known in the shop as one of the regulars, most of the staff greeted him by name. This man was one he knew particularly well, named Mark. He knew the truth about Martin as he had done removal jobs for him more than once, but he didn't seem to think any the worse of Martin for it. He did tease Martin, but well-meaningly, and Martin liked him.

"Yep, back again." Martin said, nodding at him. "I was just going actually, Mark. Not feeling great."

"Yeah, you look like crap."

Martin couldn't help but laugh. "Not the best week, to be honest. I got sick and I… lost my job. The flying job, I mean." He wasn't sure why he volunteered this information. Perhaps as a show of humility after he had made sure they had all known he was really an airline captain, or perhaps to get in before he was inevitably asked about his flying. Hoping to stave off further questions, he added "But it's okay. It was time to move on."

"Haha, fancy moving on to here?"

"Ha, right." Martin said, more as confirmation that he had heard than anything else. It was a running joke that if he came to the museum any more often he should be put on the payroll. It was an old joke from years before, when he had used to come at least once a week; nowadays it was only once a month or so. Mark, however, wasn't laughing this time.

"No, really, I'm serious. One of our supervisors left last week, we have a job going and I don't fancy doing all the overtime. You have retail experience, right?"

"Tons of it." Martin agreed, slightly nervously as he wondered what he was getting into. Even so, he would need a job sooner or later, he may as well start trying now; and he really did have experience, after years and years of night jobs and weekend jobs in shops and factories to pay for his flight training. "Supervisory experience too, a little at least."

"Great. Tell you what, let me leave your name with the boss and I'll see what I can do." Mark smiled. "Or are you just looking for pilot jobs?"

"Oh, no, no, I'm just looking for anything I can get at the moment." Martin said, which wasn't exactly a lie. "Yes, pass my name on, that would be great. Cheers Mark."

"No problem, mate, you know as much about this place as any of us."

That much was true. Martin smiled, thanked him again and left, still wondering about the wisdom of his agreement. After all, seeing the planes today had depressed him, reminded him of what he had lost, how would he cope if that was how he felt every day? On the other hand, up until now, Ducksford Air Museum had been his favourite place in the world at ground level, and if he couldn't be trusted to work the skies and travel the world, it was hard to think of anywhere else he would rather be.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: A slightly longer chapter this time, because the first part is mostly filler; a kind of potted history of MJN Air and their successive captains; but I couldn't let a chapter go by without a bit of Martin-loving. XD

Chapter Five

Douglas was sitting in the office at Fitton Airfield, reading a newspaper and waiting for Carolyn to return with their new Captain. He was past resenting his own lack of promotion, he had more or less accepted that he was doomed to stagnate here as a first officer until he retired to a pension not quite as big as he would have liked it to be. No, to the new Captain he was largely indifferent, or at least would reserve judgement until he met him. At least the Captain was older than him this time, even if he did have a ridiculous alliterative name. The only thing that was irritating him was the continued reticence from Martin, who he had expected to break by now; but if the new guy would fly for free as well, he didn't see why Carolyn would take Martin back, even with the unconditional and eternal gloating rights it would give her. He hadn't heard from Martin at all in the two weeks since he had left, apart from one short text. Douglas had text him to say that Carolyn had managed to find them a new pilot and MJN Air would be fine, and instead of the fits of jealousy he had expected, Martin had simply said congratulations and good luck, mentioning that he had found a new job too. Douglas was beginning to think, to his very great surprise, that perhaps Martin really wouldn't be back.

Arthur, judging by his subdued and slightly melancholy aura of late, had reached the same conclusion. He was pacing restlessly around the office, which, as it only had around a metre square of free floor space did not take very long and looked more like a slow-motion pirouette than pacing.

"Arthur, do sit still, you're wearing a hole in the carpet."

"Sorry, Douglas." Arthur plopped reluctantly into a chair, where he continued to fidget anxiously. "I'm just worried about meeting the new captain. I mean, what if he doesn't like us? And, and, if he's here, how is Skipper going to come back when he feels better? And… what if he's like the old captain?"

"Like Martin? Well, then I should have thought you'd be happy and MJN would continue to be the cheerful failure it is now."

"No, I don't mean like Martin, I mean like… the old captain."

"Oh." Douglas hadn't thought of that, hadn't thought about MJN's first captain for some time. "No, he won't be like that, Arthur. We could never be so unlucky again."

MJN's history was colourful without a doubt. It had started, after all, with Carolyn's second divorce and her somewhat impure motives for starting her business; namely gambling her money on a risky investment in order to rub her ex-husband's face in it, but at least it was employment for her and Arthur, and back then she had expected it to bring money eventually. Douglas had been involved almost from the beginning, more as a result of coincidence and good timing than by design.

If he was ever called upon to give justification to his actions, he would explain that he had just been going through a messy second divorce and in the middle of a legal battle to prevent his wife from keeping his daughter from him entirely. His finances had been very fluid at that time, with the division of assets and rate of child maintenance payments still to be decided, so he had quite naturally gone to his workplace for help, by buying little things here and there on his Air England expenses card that weren't _technically _necessary to his job or to the company. All the captains were doing it back then and periodically the company would pull someone up on it as an example, it was simply his turn or his bad luck that on this occasion the axe fell on him. He still found 'embezzlement' an insultingly grand term for such a relatively _minor _fiddle. Perhaps he had been a little too arrogant to try to use it towards his deposit on his new house after the divorce, but that was the only mistake he could see he had made- and he still had the house.

Of course, he had also got the sack, and made the discovery that there weren't quite as many flying jobs as there used to be, and that he wasn't quite as young and desirable as he used to be, particularly with such a stain on his record. He had taken the job at MJN Air as a stop gap, and to prevent his wife's custody suite from gaining anymore ammo. He was the only applicant and so embarked on his career as MJN's perpetual First Officer. It was then he had met Reg.

Reg was possibly the most boring man in Britain. He had been Gorden Shappey's pilot when the billionaire had been too lazy to fly himself, and Carolyn had persuaded him on board. The man was essentially a chauffer, definitely not captain material. He commented on the weather or the tea or what had been on television, and never socialised. Douglas once managed to convince him to take part in an office Fantasy Football contest, but that was as wild as it got. Even on long stop overs, he would stay at the hotel rather than come sight seeing with them. His conversation was almost entirely limited to the subjects of the weather, stained glass (for which he had a peculiar passion) and fuel prices. It was in desperation that Douglas had started the word games, and Reg went along with it, but he didn't put any heart or effort into it; he didn't take it seriously like Martin did. Douglas often wondered, on long trips, if he had ever been so bored in his life.

Then one day, after a few years, Arthur had tentatively come to Douglas and explained that the Captain had run out of room in his suitcase and had asked to put some things in Arthur's, to which he had generously agreed. Only then he had noticed that something seemed to have slipped inside the lining, and they looked like lots and lots of small packets of sugar, only he didn't think it was sugar.

Indeed, it wasn't sugar, and when Douglas confronted Reg about it, he was offered a cut. Douglas may have committed a few minor indiscretions in his life, but he never even considered it. The police were called and Reg was out, leaving them furious and, for a time, captain-less. And then, along came Martin.

Douglas had of course been acting as captain by default, as, after all, he had been MJN's sole pilot; but he hadn't realised Carolyn had been considering making it permanent until Martin mentioned that he had been interviewed for a position as first officer. He supposed Carolyn had simply been hoping that Douglas would do the job for less than somebody coming in new, but she hadn't anticipated the arrival of Martin, the wageless wonder. Martin hadn't exactly filled Douglas with awe those first few weeks, puffed up and desperate to prove himself as he was, but gradually he'd been broken in and in spite of his priggishness learnt to get into the spirit of things. He had been tolerant of, if bemused by Arthur, but he didn't plant any drugs on him; and it was fun to bait him if nothing else. Douglas couldn't deny it, life at MJN had improved in some ways at least when Martin had joined the fold.

And now they were getting ready to meet pilot number three, who Douglas imagined would be slightly more competent and less easily flustered, but undoubtedly not without a number of quirks that debilitated him in normal society; because otherwise, he would not be coming to MJN Air to fly Gerti for free. Arthur, however, was obviously still nervous.

"Arthur, it'll be fine." Douglas tried. "I personally promise to make sure that the new captain does not use you as a drugs pony."

Arthur seemed considerably reassured and although still worried that he may not be liked, began to talk almost excitedly about the possibilities of what the new pilot might be like. Douglas didn't join him on the speculation. There were some things that you just couldn't predict.

Ten minutes later, Carolyn returned, holding the door open for a man almost unremarkable in appearance; grey hair around the edges of a bald crown, medium height, a slight paunch and back held solemnly straight. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He looked wary.

"Gentlemen." Carolyn said. "This is Morris, our new pilot."

Douglas stepped forward to introduce himself and shake the new arrival by the hand. He thought that this could turn out to be rather fun.

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Martin was having a very strange experience.

People were actually doing what he asked them to.

No stupid questions, no sarcastic remarks, just people doing what they were told; and _cheerfully_.

Martin decided he was going to do his best to like this new job very much. At first it had seemed like a bit of a step down, after being a captain for so long, but now he was beginning to see the advantages. After all, when he had been doing shop work before, he had been so preoccupied with the fact that it wasn't flying he hadn't taken the time to discover whether he was any good at it, or whether he enjoyed it. This time he was going to give it a fair chance, and it was going well so far.

It was a Wednesday and his first solo shift. It turned out that the job was for a duty manager, which meant that although he would be under the general manager, when he was on shift he had sole authority and responsibility. The prospect had made Martin somewhat nervous, but he was only going to be in three days a week and only doing the duty for two of them; and he had spent Monday and Tuesday being shown the ropes. It all seemed quite straight forward and he soon settled back into the routine of shop work, of shelf stacking and operating tills, cleaning, counting money, invoices, ordering, stock control. The thing was, once you had worked in one shop you had worked in them all; and Martin had worked in a lot of shops. Even so, he had been nervous about doing his first duty so soon after starting, especially when he was going to be with shop assistants he hadn't worked with before, and one h had never met. He couldn't help wondering if they were going to resent him, coming in at the top, or if they would have any respect for him at all. He didn't know what he would do if they were like Douglas. He should have been hardened to it, but he just felt tired; very tired. The last thing he wanted was a battle of wits.

He needn't have worried. With him on a Wednesday was Gloria, a lady in her late 60s who had been working here as long as Martin had been coming, and seemed delighted to finally have him on staff. She was the cheery, motherly sort and pottered about in the shop, not getting very much done; but not getting it done so good-naturedly you couldn't hold it against her. So far, she had offered Martin a cup of coffee at least three times an hour and told him most of her life story, particularly the fact that she was currently awaiting the arrival of her first two grandchildren, because both of her children were expecting with their partners at the same time. Gloria was over the moon about the whole thing, and had a book of knitting patterns in the staff room that she would ponder over on her breaks, trying to decide what to make for the coming children.

The other assistant was very young. About lunchtime a girl named Emily turned up to help out in the busier hours until closing. She was sixteen years old, in her final year at a fancy grammar school where they insisted the year ten and eleven pupils had Wednesday afternoons off for 'enrichment' and she had chosen to find work. After a very few minutes Martin could see why these two had been put together; Emily was incredibly energetic and a quick worker, picking up the slack for Gloria and seeming to enjoy herself immensely doing it. Martin could not keep up with her at all and was sure he would run out of things for her to do. She reminded him irresistibly of Arthur, and made him feel strangely homesick for MJN now and then, but he pushed it aside. The rubbers and things needed topping up. He went into the storeroom and loaded a trolley up with boxes.

When he emerged into the shop, however, his co-workers clearly had other ideas.

"I can do that, Martin!" Emily said eagerly, sliding off the counter where she had been sitting.

"It's alright." Martin replied. "I can manage."

"Oh, no, let us do it, Martin." Gloria put in. "You haven't had your afternoon break yet."

"That's alright, I don't need-"

"You've got to make sure you take your breaks." Gloria insisted as Emily gently tugged the trolley out of his hands. "You're entitled to them. Now off you go, the kettle's not long boiled."

Surprised and rather pleased, Martin went. At MJN he had operated to a strict 'If you want something done, you've got to do it yourself' policy; and breaks were a thing of legend. As he sat down with his cup of tea, he felt rather spoilt. He flipped idly through the house pages in the newspaper, but they were all still out of his price range. There was a maisonette he was thinking about renting, though, he could almost have afforded it when he was relying on his van work, but his income had been too variable to risk it. Now, so long as he was careful with his spending there was a chance-

From the peg on the back of the door, the mobile in his coat pocket buzzed. Martin opened it to find a brief text from Douglas.

_Just met your replacement, he seems alright. First flight is Monday. Last chance, Martin. _

Martin sat for a long time trying to work out how to reply, but he couldn't, so he didn't.

oooooooooooooooo

**A/N**: I don't know if countries besides the UK have maisonettes, so as a quick definition they are a bit like flats, except it's just an ordinary two or three floor house that's been divided up. Usually each has its own separate entrance, meaning there isn't normally a central stairway or landing or any communal areas.

On another note, I don't think working part time would give you enough money to rent one on your own in this country… but then again, this isn't the UK; this is fanfic land where Ducksford Air Museum is in or near Fitton and apparently has nothing to do with the real Duxford Air Museum in Cambridgeshire. Oops a daisy. (Thanks to smallsteps32 for pointing that out!)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Douglas, I got one!" Arthur announced happily, bounding onto the flight deck.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, see, one of the passengers is reading _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_, and their finger was over some of the title."

"So?"

"Well, I thought, if you take the E off, it would be _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fir_!"

"What?" Douglas finally caught up with the steward's erratic thought processes and remembered the game. "Oh, right! Good one, and only mere months too late."

"What's this?" Morris asked.

"Ah, you haven't been initiated into the great MJN Air tradition yet, have you, Morris?" Douglas was only too happy to explain. "You see, the thing about flying is, it can sometimes get rather dull. We find word games are a good way to while away the idle hours."

"So in this one," Arthur continued. "You take the letter off the end of a title to make something funnier. So_, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ ends in an E, and if you take the E off then you get _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fir_! Like it's made of animals!"

"No, Arthur." Douglas said mildly. "Fir with an I is a type of tree. You're thinking of 'fur' with a U."

"Am I? Oh well, does it still count?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, why not?" Douglas felt he should make a show of magnanimity for their new pilot's maiden voyage. So far the trip had been uneventful, and rather quiet. Clearly Morris wasn't the talkative kind, asking only about MJN's previous trips and about the company. At least he was less dull than Reg, but still, a game was just what was needed to bring the new captain into the family and out of his shell. "What about you, Morris? Got anything to add?"

"I don't think so, Mr Richardson." He said, rather coldly. "I feel I may need to remind you that this isn't a pub or a social club, this is a workplace, our workplace. I rather think we should maintain a degree of professionalism, don't you?"

"Well, to a point, but I don't think a little word game on the flight deck-"

"Just concentrate on flying the plane, Mr Richardson."

Douglas wanted to punch him, very badly, but the captain had already moved his focus to Arthur.

"On the subject of professionalism, Arthur, what have you got on your head?"

"It's a hat."

"I see. Well, I think we can start with a proper observation of the uniform policy."

"Oh, no, don't worry; it's my steward's hat."

"He always wears it." Douglas put in, not liking the turn this was taking.

"Well, now he can stop." Morris said. "Arthur, remove your hat, you look ridiculous."

"But…"

"It's absurd, Arthur. And when you look absurd, MJN Air looks absurd. You are on the front lines, and if customers think we're absurd, they won't come back, will they? And if they don't come back, eventually we'll have no passengers left, will we?"

"Oh." Arthur looked sufficiently deflated and somewhat upset. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise my hat would ruin things."

"Well, now you do." Morris said, stretching out a hand. Arthur sadly put the hat into it. "Good, thank you, Arthur." He rolled back his shoulders slightly, drawing himself up straighter in the chair. Douglas rolled his eyes. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was pomp. "Now, listen to me, gentleman." He said, for all the world like he was going to begin some great oratory. "I've joined your airline and I'm sure you see me as an outsider. I'm sure I'm going to tread on a few toes or put a few noses out of joint, but the thing is, you aren't a _successful _airline. If I am going to continue flying for MJN Air, that needs to change, and we are going to begin changing it now. I don't know what sort of outfit your old captain was running, but I am different. There is a time and a place for informality, for 'fun' but it is not this plane. So." He gave them both a warning look. "We will be sensible. We will provide a decent service. And above all, we will be professional."

"And you will be disappointed." Douglas muttered under his breath. He hadn't been spoken to like this since he had been at school. It was intolerable. Morris ignored him.

"I apologise for being hard line, but I will pull this company up by the bootstraps if I have to." He settled back down, his speech over. "But I can have fun too, you know. Look, when we get to Berlin, let me buy you both a drink."

"Oh." Arthur said half heartedly. "Okay."

Douglas felt like he would rather be back in hospital throwing up every two minutes than agree, but he couldn't let Arthur go alone.

"Very kind of you, Captain." He said reluctantly. He had a bad feeling about this.

ooooooooooooooo

Methodical work was the kind Martin liked best, as long as there was a certain challenge to it. He liked chipping away gradually at a problem until it wasn't a problem anymore; he liked being able to see he had made progress with a task. That day, he was tackling the local history section.

The problem was, this was Fitton, not London; it barely had any history to speak of. So far as Martin could tell, most of the books were entitled '_Fitton and' _followed by another nearby area with more prowess, like Birmingham or Coventry or Worcestershire. There was only one book just about _Fitton through the Ages_ and there were seventeen unsold copies. Martin had gone to find out when they had been ordered and had to go so far back into the invoices it was before they were even digitised in 2001. Twenty copies of the book had been bought for sale in the shop in 1997. It was no wonder the pages were beginning to yellow and curl, and they weren't the only ones. It seemed like most of the section had been bought on the wrong side of the millennium. No, the four shelves of local history books and tea towels and so forth were not their best sellers.

Mondays were the day that Martin wasn't on supervisor duty; Suzanne the general manager was in charge and had quite happily granted his request to let him 'handle' the local history section. The whole thing was a complete jumble. Martin had got all the books and paperweights off the shelves and scrubbed them down, until all the accumulated dust and cobwebs were gone, then when he went to put the merchandise back on he realised how filthy the stock was, so he cleaned them all too, setting Gloria to work in the back room with a sink full of fairy liquid and all the paperweights and ornaments. By the time she brought them back out, Martin had reordered the shelves entirely, making sure the books were all in order by subject and title and arranging some with the covers out to make them more noticeable. He arranged the other stock around them, rather getting into the spirit of aesthetic display. He went into the back office and printed off some fancy word art, blu tacking it to the wall above the shelves and then pinning up some Fitton tea towels on either side to make it really noticeable. Then it was time for his master stroke. They needed to clear some of this dead stock and ideally he would just reduce it right down in price; but he wasn't sure he had the authority and he didn't want to overstep his bounds just yet. Still, he had another trick, a trick almost worthy of Douglas.

In the office there was a filing cabinet in which the top drawer was dedicated to all kinds of stationery and supplies. When Martin had gone in there the other day to fetch a new roll of tickets for the price gun, he had noticed next to it other stickers, saying things like "Reduced" or "Sale". He couldn't use either of those of course, it would be a lie and against the law, but there were also some that said "Clearance" and some that said "Only!". Martin objected slightly to the punctuation, but it couldn't be helped, and if it worked…

Of course, he could cut off the exclamation mark and re-stick it to the end of the price labels, where it was supposed to- no, that was too fiddly, even for him. He stuck them on as they were. Just as he was finishing, Emily arrived, still in her school uniform.

"Wow, Martin, did you do that? It looks great! Maybe people will actually buy this stuff now!"

"That's the plan." Martin said, feeling rather proud of himself. "But what are you doing here? You're not working today, are you?"

"No, I'm just here to get my brother." Emily said. "He's here on a school trip, they should be coming through here any minute."

"Oh." Martin said, without much enthusiasm. He didn't like children. Well, he didn't exactly have a good track record with them. The only child he'd had prolonged interaction with in the last few years was Carolyn's great-nephew Kieran, who had ended up almost beating him to a pulp. He just didn't know what to say to them or how to treat them and he'd rather avoid them as much as possible.

In this case, it proved absolutely impossible. A few minutes after Emily's arrival, the shop was taken over by twenty-seven eight and nine year olds, and Martin suddenly became very glad he wasn't in charge that day. It wasn't that the kids were _deliberately _misbehaving, it was just that their youthful exuberance wasn't really suitable for a lot of them together in a confined space. They ran about, their hands in everything, picking up everything, putting it back in their version of tidy which did _not _match Martin's, shouting to each other, comparing finds, trying to work out what they could buy with their money. The teacher and her assistants did what they could, straightening things up and keeping the kids from getting out of hand, but Martin would still be glad when the shop was quiet again. He stood protectively in front of his new local history section, not wanting it to be messed up by curious fingers.

"I didn't know there was a local history section here." The teacher commented, coming over. "Then again, I didn't realise Fitton had enough local history for a whole section." She smiled and suddenly, although she was rather plain and had dark circles under her eyes, Martin realised what a lovely smile she had, and how soft her eyes were. Suddenly he couldn't find anything to say, let alone anything eloquent.

"Urrk." He said, approximately.

"Pardon?" The teacher said.

"I… I said…" Martin began nervously. Then he thought _You're just a shop assistant, Martin._

Somehow, this was comforting. She wouldn't be expecting much. He didn't have to live up to being an airline captain. The thought depressed him so suddenly it was like a damp blanket being pressed firmly over the flames of his anxiety, smothering them. There was no point trying to impress her because he never would. He should just give it up now and be himself. "Well, that there isn't much. Honestly, most of these books are about Coventry, unless you want _Fitton through the Ages, _and that seems to mostly be pictures of the Lord Mayor's Garden Party or the butcher's shop on the high street every year since 1912."

The teacher chuckled, but then picked up the book. "Actually, that sounds wonderful, I was hoping to find some pictures of how Fitton used to look to show the children, but there's nothing online." She started flipping through. "Yes, this looks perfect, thank you. And it's 'Only!' £2.99." She paused, turning the book round to show Martin the offending label. "Honestly, why put an exclamation mark there? Who would say 'Only!... £2.99.'?"

"That's exactly what I thought!" Martin said, relieved that it wasn't just him. "I thought about cutting the exclamation mark off and sticking it in the right place, but it seemed like a lot of work."

She laughed and Martin realised she thought he was joking, so he quickly laughed too. It felt nice, to be laughing with a woman.

"Well, thank you for your help, Martin." She said, peering at his name badge, and then went to starting chasing the children to make their final decisions and get to the till; and shortly afterwards Martin abandoned his position guarding the new shelves to stop a little girl making a terrible mistake in buying the model of the A-10 Thunderbolt II where the engines were mounted on the wings instead of the back.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I can't not comment on the new series! I must have already listened to Timbuktu-Timbuktu three or four times, just on virtue of having something new to hear. I love it so much, particularly seeing a little of a different side to Martin's character. Douglas has definitely been a bad influence on him since Abu Dhabi, haha. Somehow it just made me think even worse of Morris when I wrote this chapter…

I'm having a little bit of trouble planning out the next few chapters. I have all the scenes I need, but the order they come in is still a bit fluid; trying to keep the balance right between Martin-focus and MJN-focus, trying to keep what is happening to each of them more or less in line with each other chronologically, trying to keep the chapters roughly even in length is tricky… I'm doing my best, but we might get a bit of disparity in length and a few awkward breaks. I wanted to have another scene on the end of this chapter, but it seemed to be running too long, so you'll just have to wait for next time :P Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 7

"It's five PM, gentlemen. Finish what you're doing and then we can go off the clock."

Douglas bit back an audible sigh of relief. If nothing else, he was not going to let this upstart new captain see that he was getting to him. It had only taken a single flight, but Douglas already had Captain Montague's number. He may have told Carolyn he missed flying and would work for free, but the reality was quite different. Clearly what Morris missed was bossing people about; he was one of those kind of people who had to be in control in order to feel good about themselves, who required constant fuel for their ever-increasing egos.

He was like all Martin's bad bits, but far worse.

Douglas couldn't deny, Martin shared the unfortunate trait of needing to be constantly in command, but at least with him it had been tempered by a healthy level of self-deprecation and general incompetence. Martin had a deep yearning to be obeyed and respected, but he never actually _expected _to be, and if he did, he was easy enough to brush aside because he was usually wrong, or could be persuaded to _think _that he was. No, compared to Morris' power-complex, Martin's was virtually non-existent.

Douglas had also mocked Martin for being such a stickler and called him priggish more than once, and quite rightly too. Compared to Morris, however, Martin seemed like a positive risk-taking, rule-smashing daredevil. He hadn't shifted on the stance that word games were unprofessional and still insisted that Gerti was a workplace, and only for working in. Douglas, quite naturally, had taken that as a challenge to be as unprofessional as humanly possible with him noticing, but unfortunately with Martin gone he only had Arthur as a partner in crime. He had made a half-hearted attempt at getting up a run of the travelling lemon, but then Arthur had decided not hide it not-very-subtly on the flight deck door handle, where it had been relocated to the smirking Captain's pocket, followed by a long and boring scolding in which he spoke to Douglas like he was six years old.

It was only a matter of time, Douglas thought, until he broke and punched the man. Violence, however, wasn't really his forte, and he was determined to channel his frustration into something much more clever. He wasn't sure what it would be just yet, but this man needed the pranking to end all pranking.

At least Martin had been as eager as the rest of them to get off the flying scrapheap as soon as they miraculously landed safely at any given location, to stretch their legs an get to the hotel. As far as Morris was concerned, every minute of every hour they were being paid for should be sent on board Gerti. And so it was that when they had landed in Berlin forty minutes before going off the clock at five, Arthur had been dispatched to give the cabin a good clean and Douglas was supposed to be checking the fire extinguishers and filling out his log book, instead of which he was sitting, and watching Arthur clean.

"Leave it there, Arthur." He called over the whine of the vacuum. "He can't make you work past five, whether you're getting paid or not."

"I never get paid." Arthur replied. "Anyway, I'm almost done now." He pushed the hoover into the very last corner by the door, and turned the hoover off. "See? There."

"Good, then let's get out of this hell." Douglas stood up and sighed. "Why on earth did you agree to go for a drink with him, Arthur? I can't think of anything I wouldn't rather do. Your mother seems to have landed us, _again_, with the world's most insufferable man."

"Oh, come on, he's alright." Arthur said, with unusually false cheeriness. "Anyway, maybe he'll lighten up a bit, now we aren't supposed to be working."

"Arthur, of the three of us, I am the only one actually getting paid. If he, as a volunteer, insists on finding things to do until the last possible second, what makes you think he might secretly be the fun loving kind?"

"Oh, I don't know." Arthur said. "You never know though, do you?"

"Excuse me, Arthur." The captain in question suddenly emerged through the flight deck door. "Didn't I just say everything had to be finished before we can leave?"

"Yeah, sorry Captain, just putting the hoover away."

"I can see that, I just have to wonder why when the cleaning so clearly isn't finished." Morris said, in his usual superior tones, pointing up at a cobweb which had been expanding in the corner of the flight deck for several months

"Oh. Well, you see, Skipper and I talked about that and-"

"I am your skipper, Arthur."

"Oh, sorry, I mean, Martin and I talked about it and we eventually agreed that it was a shame for the spiders if they had nowhere to live, and if there was nowhere for the spiders to go after I hoovered up their webs in the cabin; so in the end Skipper said that as long as the passengers couldn't see it was fine."

"Skipper?"

"…Martin. Sorry. Martin said it was fine."

"By which he means 'eventually gave in'." Douglas muttered, but his wit went unappreciated.

"Martin may have agreed," Morris said. "But Martin isn't here anymore."

"Don't we know it." Douglas interjected. Again, he was ignored. Morris ploughed on, much harder to rile up than Martin.

"And I," Morris continued determinedly. "Am not remotely interested in the spiders having somewhere to live. So, I rather think we had better take a rain check on that drink, don't you? I think you'd better stay here until this place is properly cleaned up."

"O-okay." Arthur said, feebly, rather overwhelmed by this man's overbearing manner.

"Don't worry, I'm sure Mr Richardson will keep you company." The captain smiled with false pleasantry at Douglas. "I suspect he may have a decade's worth of log book entries to catch up on, which does seem a rather cavalier attitude for a pilot who did so badly on his last SEP course that he is one step away from losing his license."

Douglas snorted and the Captain left. Arthur was the only one who bothered to say goodbye, and even his was rather half hearted. Douglas settled back down into his chair.

"Aren't you going to do your log book, Douglas?" Arthur asked, after a moment of silence.

"Of course I'm not." Douglas said. "And I wouldn't get those cobwebs down either, if I were you. He's just trying to show us who's boss, which means we need to show him that we are."

"Right!" Arthur said. "Still though. I might just hoover them up quickly, just in case."

"Arthur, in case of what? We can't just bow down to him!"

"No, I know, but… he might get a bit shouty."

"I have no doubt he will, Arthur, but what can he really do? Carolyn won't fire us and if he pushes too hard, well, you know what we'll do."

Arthur paused, thinking, then gave up. "I don't though, sorry. What will we do if he pushes too hard?"

"In that case, Arthur, we'll mutiny." Douglas said, with a small smile from the corner of his brain that knew it was on the verge of living a childhood fantasy.

It was quite possible Arthur felt the same way, because he said, quietly and rather nervously, "Brilliant."

ooooooooooooooooooooo

Wednesday came, and Martin was still revelling in his success. Since his rearrangement of the local history section, monthly sales from that area had gone up, by his reckoning, at least 5000 percent. Yes, he was rather proud of himself. Almost all the copies of the 'Only! £2.99' _Fitton Through the Ages _had sold and Suzanne had told him to order more. In fact, she had given him sole responsibility for that section. Martin was still high on his success. It was one of the best feelings he'd had in his life, apart from flying planes.

He quickly pulled his thoughts out of that path, knowing it would only hurt in the end. He had to stop thinking about flying planes, but all his thought paths seemed to lead back to it, like it was all he could think about. Martin missed flying, he really, really did. It was all he had ever wanted to do his whole life, it wasn't that simple to just turn his back on it. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts kept drifting back to it. It was as instinctual to him as breathing; every morning on his way to work he indicated left to turn into the airfield, just out of habit, forgetting that he wasn't at MJN Air anymore. Every day it was harder to turn the indicator off again, to pull away. He really missed flying, he couldn't help it. He just had to keep reminding himself why he wasn't there anymore.

He kept dreaming about the ill-fated flight and he couldn't tell if it was his real memories surfacing from the haze of illness or if it was his subconscious exaggerating, but the nightmares were useful to keep him grounded, the terror and the fear and the confusion helpful reminders of why he had quit. Some nights he dreamed about Gerti crashing, and everyone dying but him; and then he would wake up in a sweat and know he couldn't fly again. Sometimes, however, he would dream something closer to what had actually happened and feel the plane gliding smoothly to a halt, setting down perfectly, responding perfectly to his instincts; but as soon as he awoke the elation would fade as he realised that flying was the best feeling in the world and he wasn't going to have it again. In some ways, those dreams were harder.

He was thinking about it again, Martin realised, and hurried off towards the stock room to distract himself by finding something to put out. Emily was in the staff room on her break as he passed through, and he couldn't help stopping to talk to her, particularly as at that moment she was looking rather upset. Martin liked Emily, not only because she was hard working and enthusiastic, but of all his colleagues, she was the only one who seemed to know anything at all about planes. True, her knowledge was patchy in places and not as developed as his own, but wouldn't have been bad for an adult and was outstanding for someone her age. Martin had always felt slightly appalled that a lot of the Museum staff outside of the guides knew very little about aviation, and found her interest refreshing.

That afternoon, however, it didn't seem like it was aviation she had on her brain. She didn't even notice Martin come out the back, so absorbed was she in the school book she had spread out in front of her. Maths homework from the look of it, he realised. She seemed to have a lot of crossings out and not many actual answers.

"Emily, you're supposed to be taking a break." He said.

"I know, I just really want to get this done." She said in a way Martin hadn't heard from her before. She blinked hastily, and Martin really thought she might cry. She had been quiet all afternoon, perhaps this was all that was bothering her.

"Well, the shop's quiet, take some extra time if you like."

"But I'm supposed to be working…"

"I won't tell if you won't." Martin smiled. "What is it you're working on, anyway? Maths?"

She nodded. "But I suck at it."

"Can't your dad, or um, mom help you when you get home?"

"They're worse than me."

For a moment there was silence as Martin hovered awkwardly. He hadn't been in management long enough to really know what to do when one of his workers was so upset; and at MJN Air he had been with Douglas and Arthur and hadn't needed to. He had no idea what to say.

However, he did know trigonometry, didn't he? Maths and woodwork had been the only subjects he had been good at when he was at school, and it couldn't have changed that much, could it? He sat down and pulled the book over.

"Ah! Don't look!" Emily tried to grab it back, but he gently prised it away.

"It's alright." He said, trying to make sense of the crossings out. "I'm good at maths."

In truth, what Emily was looking at was fairly basic and after a moment or two looking over her notes to refresh his memory felt almost like second nature to Martin. He explained it as best he could, and Emily was her usual hard working self. What she lacked most was confidence and patience; often she wanted to give up and start again on a question, not realising she was a few steps short of the correct answer. It wasn't the theory so much as the numbers she struggled with, she knew what should be multiplied by what but the actual doing proved tricky. What she really needed, Martin realised, was the encouragement and the coaxing to keep plodding along until she reached the right answer, and though it took him to the very limits of his patience, she was soon working steadily towards her third correct result. Already she was speeding up.

"That's it." Martin said as she finished the question. "See, you can do it."

"Not on my own." She still seemed upset. "I just hate maths so much! Why is it so important to them?!"

"Them?" Martin echoed. "Who? The school?"

"Yeah… and, you know, jobs and that."

"Jobs? What kind of jobs?" Martin attempted to be reassuring. "Most don't care that much. What is it you want to do?"

"Don't laugh." She said. "But… I really want to be a pilot! I want to fly planes!"

Martin found he couldn't say anything.

"It's just so amazing, isn't it, to see them up in the air like that?" She continued on at a hundred miles an hour, her passion animating her face and hands, which were fluttering about like birds as she talked. "My dad's like an amateur runner, and when I was a kid mom took us all down to the finishing line for the marathon to cheer him in; and the Red Arrows did a fly past, and it was completely amazing! And ever since then, it's all I've wanted to do." She brought herself up short, looking nervously at Martin. "…you don't think I'm stupid, right?"

"No." Martin said. "No, I definitely don't think that."

"It probably won't happen though. Not if I can't even get a decent maths GCSE." She threw her pencil down in defeat.

"Emily! You will have enough people telling you that you can't do it without you telling yourself that!" She looked up at him in surprise. "And you're right, flying is the best feeling in the world; being a pilot is the best job in the world and, and maybe there's a time to give up on things, but it definitely isn't before you've even tried." He pushed the pencil back towards her and stood up. "I don't want to see you back on that shop floor until all these questions are done."

"Yes, Martin." She nodded. "But… if it's so great, didn't you ever try?"

"Try what?"

"To become a pilot."

Martin hesitated. He hadn't realised Emily didn't know about his previous job; he was too used to his colleagues knowing him as a regular customer. He didn't know if he should tell her, either. Would his experiences just disillusion her further?

"Um…"

"Martin?"

"Yes, I did. Actually, I was a Captain for a while with that little Air Charter company down at the airfield."

"Didn't you like it?"

This he had to consider. His crew had left something to be desired, and his plane, and the fact he didn't get paid; but it sounded like she more wanted to know about the experience of flying, of being a pilot. "I loved it."

"So how come you left?"

"I…" Martin really didn't want to go into details. "I made a mistake and I had to resign. But don't worry! It was my fault, that won't happen to you as long as you're careful."

Emily had only listened to the first half of his answer. "They made you resign? Couldn't you stay and make up for it? Fix the mistake?"

"They didn't _make _me resign, but that's how I fixed it. By resigning."

"How is resigning fixing it?"

Martin was saved from answering by the entrance of a man he recognised as the head of customer services but whose name he could not remember. The man was looking rather flustered.

"Martin? I hear you know about aeroplanes."

"A bit, why?"

"Oh, thank goodness. Two of our tour guides have gone home sick and people are getting really impatient. I was wondering if you thought you could handle a tour, just to clear the backlog."

"Pardon?"

"Please, it would only take an hour, hour and a half and I really need your help. Gloria said no-one knows as much about this place as you do."

_Well_, Martin thought. _That's probably true_. He agreed readily. It was finally happening. He was finally being given the chance to go and talk about planes, to people who actually wanted to hear it, and getting _paid _for it. It was very nearly a dream come true. If he couldn't fly planes anymore, at least he could talk about them.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Martin's luck had changed for the better, of that he was now firmly convinced. Not only had he been given free reign to share his love and passion for aeroplanes in the museum, he had managed to do it well and articulately and in front of an attractive (single?) woman. It was, in fact, the teacher he had met briefly the previous week, the one with the nice smile and tired eyes, who by chance was in his tour group. Martin didn't know what she was doing there in the middle of the week, and at first it had thrown him completely, and he had stammered his way through a few key facts about the first plane in the museum. However, she had smiled encouragingly and unobtrusively from the back of the group, and he had felt himself relax, and get into his stride. He did, after all, know an awful lot about aeroplanes. After a few minutes he began to enjoy himself, sharing facts and stories; and by the end he felt rather proud of himself. He didn't know what the usual tours were like, but he was willing to bet they weren't up to his standard.

"Martin! Where have you been?!"

Sadly, his reception back at the tour starting point was not as warm as he had been anticipating.

"Doing the tour." He wondered what on earth he was supposed to have done wrong.

"For three and a half hours? You know we'll get complaints, people just can't stay interested for that long."

"Well, maybe not on your _usual _tours, but I think you'll find-"

"Excuse me, Martin?" The teacher said, gently interrupting. "I had a few questions about the aeroplanes, I wondered if I could talk to you?"

"Of course, of course." Martin said with a significant look at the tour leader. Somehow though, he knew he would never be allowed to take a tour again, and felt a slight pang of disappointment. It had seemed to be going so well. "How can I help you?" Martin asked, turning his attention to the woman.

"I just wanted to say I thought it was a wonderful tour." She said. "Very informative. Do you often do them, as well as the shop?"

"Oh, no, I was just… filling in. You know, helping out. I like…"

"Doing tours?"

"Being helpful." He did his best to smile. Thankfully she smiled back. She seemed to have a way of putting people at ease; Martin was beginning to see why she made a good teacher.

"Well, it was very helpful." She said. "I'm Liz, by the way. Liz Kingsley."

"Lovely to meet you." Martin pressed her hand, desperately hoping his own wasn't sweating. "I'm Martin. Well, you knew that already, it helps that I'm wearing a name badge, doesn't it? I mean, I'm Martin Crief. Lovely to meet you."

"You too, Martin. But you know, 'Crief' is also on your name badge."

Martin laughed along with her, not sure what else he could do, but tried to steer the conversation quickly into less humiliating territory. "I, I didn't expect to see you again. I mean, that is, I thought you'd be at school. Teaching. Ah, not that's any of my business-"

"Wednesday afternoons are my PPA time." She said, as if that explained anything. Martin nodded anyway. "The thing is, you miss so much just taking kids round, and the school's tour is so basic… the kids had a few questions and I was interested in seeing it properly, so I persuaded the head teacher to let me come back."

"Ah, well, I hope you enjoyed it." Martin said. "And, um, if you have any questions…"

For a few moments, the talk turned back to aeroplanes and aeronautics, which Martin never minded, and Liz seemed fascinated. Martin realised slightly gleefully that he was actually impressing a woman, and doing it by talking about what he loved; a subject his teenage crushes had cruelly told him would bore every woman he ever met in his entire life. Not Liz though, at least not yet.

_This is all_, Martin thought with some surprise, _Going rather well, isn't it? _

The problem was, however, how to take it out of the professional and into the personal, how to steer the conversation round to something less perfunctory. Happily, however, Liz made the transition so smoothly Martin couldn't be entirely sure if it was deliberate or not. It was a matter of just two or three sentences.

"I'd love to get you in to talk to the children about the museum, I think you could really inspire them." She said. "Oh, but I suppose you don't get much free time away from the shop?"

"Oh, no, I'm only in three days a week, I'm sure we could find some time…"

"Oh, really? That sounds lovely. I'm so impatient though, I'm not sure I could keep myself occupied."

"Oh, it's fine. I mean, I take what extra hours I can and in my free time I…" Martin's mouth suddenly dried up.

_Oh no. _He thought.

On the one hand, they were talking personally now, which was good. On the other, they were talking about hobbies, of which he still had a grand total of none. All his spare time recently had been used carrying on with his van business, trying to get a little extra money to set himself up in the maisonette.

"I mean, I, um, I don't… have much free time right now…" He stumbled. "I'm pretty new here and I'm moving house on Saturday so, um… lots to… lots to prepare."

"Ouch, tell me about it." She laughed. "You really need about ten people to make any head way, don't you? So, are you roping in your wife? Girlfriend?"

"Oh! No, no, no. No, not at all, no-one like that!" He had to bite his tongue to stop the dreadful chittering laugh it was making. "No, no, it's just me."

"Really? Can you manage on your own?"

"Yes, yes, it'll be fine… I'm sure I can…" He stopped himself. "I mean, a little help wouldn't be unappreciated, obviously, but… I couldn't ask anyone to…"

"You're not asking me, I'm offering." She said, cheerfully. "I just love snooping at other people's houses, and I love getting to know people. It sounds like fun."

Martin wanted to agree, very desperately. He would very much enjoy having this woman get to know him. Unfortunately, the idea of her getting to know that he was moving from a glorified cupboard into a slightly larger glorified cupboard was not so desirable. She could see his hesitation.

"Oh, don't worry, I don't have any ulterior motives. I just like… being helpful." She smiled gently at the small tease.

"I know, it's just… well, the flat I'm moving into isn't-"

"Before you get self-conscious, you should know I still live with my parents. Wherever it is, it's one up on me."

"I've lived in the attic of a student house for the last decade and now I'm moving into a maisonette in what used to be a council house."

Liz laughed. "Sounds lovely. Anyway, Martin, please let me help. I always think you're friends for life once you've helped someone move."

"Alright, but at least let me take you for a drink afterwards. As a thank you." Martin could see her expression change, the slightest hints of trouble in her eyes, so he said quickly, clumsily, "As friends!" She relaxed and Martin wondered if he had somehow been too forward; even though she had been far more forward than him.

"Better not." She said. "I can only drink with people I know well, I make a fool of myself otherwise."

"Oh…"

"Why don't you make me dinner?" She suggested. "You can move in and try out your new kitchen all at the same time."

"Yes! Yes, alright. S-should I take a, a number or something? Just in case I, you know…" Martin wished he could be suave and collected at a time like this, but it was just never going to happen. Still, it didn't seem to matter. A moment later he had Liz's number safely folded in his pocket- she was one of those efficient people who always had a pen and paper in her hand bag- and had arranged a time to pick her up on Saturday morning.

"There we are then." She said. "Wonderful. Here's to new friendships!" She smiled again, said goodbye and breezed out.

Martin stood where he was, slightly dazed, knowing that she had made it pretty clear that he was a 'friend', but also feeling she had made it pretty clear it could turn into something else in the end. He felt almost as if he had been hit by something as it whizzed past him; it was definitely easier to be asked out than to be the one doing the asking, but this was the first time in his life he had experienced it- not, he reminded himself, that it was a date. Technically. He couldn't help but think if all the women he had met in his life had been that direct, his love life would have been far more successful.

"Martin, there you are!" It was Emily that called him this time. "Gloria sent me off to look for you, we need to close the shop."

"Ah, sorry, I'll be right there!"

And so, Martin hurried off, unable to stop smiling and checking all the time on the phone number in his pocket. Yes, he decided, his luck had definitely changed for the better.

oooooooooooooooo

Carolyn, contrary to popular opinion, had several things in life she enjoyed; even things other than getting one-up on her ex-husband or employees. She was, for example, rather fond of walks out in the country side, or on the coast when she could get there, she enjoyed looking at the scenery. She was also rather keen on crosswords, good scotch and real wood-burning fires. One thing she did not enjoy, however, was going to the supermarket.

When she'd had money, she had managed to largely avoid the supermarket, driving the few miles necessary to visit a farm shop for all her meat, dairy and vegetables instead and finding whatever else she needed in a small local convenience store. Nowadays, however, the higher prices weren't really a viable option and she was forced to endure the crowds and harsh lighting and production-line checkouts of the supermarket. It was like shopping in a processing plant. She hated and resented every second she spent there, and could never decide whether it was better or worse having Arthur with her. It was like shopping with a small child; he felt the need to point out every single special offer or new product, and was continually asking to buy things they didn't need. On the other hand, he was useful for carrying bags and pushing the trolley and reaching things on high shelves and he always wanted to come, so usually did. Carolyn didn't even bother trying to get the pasta sauce she wanted.

"Arthur, grab some of the tomato and garlic from the top shelf." She instructed, looking at the cooking instructions on some noodles.

"Righto, mum- ah! _Look_!"

"Arthur?"

She didn't get a reply, looking up just in time to see Arthur had abandoned their trolley and was now running at top speed down the aisle. A moment later she found out why as she watched him hug someone at such speed they were knocked into the baked beans and recognised the surprised yelp as that of ex-Captain Crief, who now had a screaming woman in his trolley. Carolyn sighed.

Martin had thought the supermarket would be quiet on a Friday morning and so had gone to buy dinner things before he finished his packing- not that he had that much to do; you couldn't fit much into an attic room, even after almost ten years of living there. He hadn't expected to be suddenly assaulted from behind while he was innocently reaching for a can of tinned tomatoes. Someone slammed into him so hard that he was knocked off his feet, slamming into the tins on the shelves and sending his trolley careering forward with such force that it hit a woman so hard in the legs she fell bodily into it.

"Oops." Said the human projectile, and Martin realised it was Arthur.

"Arthur! What are you doing here?! What are you doing?!" Martin didn't wait for an answer, running the few yards to his wayward trolley, helping the woman out of it, apologising profusely. She slapped him round the face and stormed off, no doubt to alert security. Martin sighed.

"Sorry, Skip." Arthur looked suitably shamefaced. "I'm just… I was so happy to see you, all my happiness came out at once."

"Yes, alright, Arthur. It's good to see you too." Carolyn arrived next to them. "Oh, and you, Carolyn. Hello."

"Hello Martin."

For a moment they stood in awkward silence. Martin began to remove the squashed bread rolls from his trolley, feeling every split second of the awkwardness. A large part of him wanted to throw himself down on his knees and beg for his old job back, beg to fly again, but a combination of pride and shame kept that in check. On the one hand, he knew he was a danger to the sky and could have killed them, and he was lucky not to have lost his license; and on the other, he knew he had been right to quit and things were going rather well for him now, he had no reason to go crawling back to Carolyn. He straightened up, determined not to let them see that in spite of everything he still missed MJN.

"How are you feeling, Skipper?" Arthur asked. "Are you all better now? After you were sick?"

"I'm fine, Arthur." He glanced at Carolyn. "More than fine, actually, I'm doing really well, very well. I'm just getting food for, well, sort of a house warming. I'm finally getting out of the attic."

"That's brilliant, Skip! Can we come?"

"No! No, sorry, Arthur, but it's just for me and Liz."

"Oh, _Liz_." Carolyn sniffed. "I see."

"Yes, Liz. She's helping me move, so I'm going to make her dinner."

"How lovely for you." Carolyn spat, his boasting rankling within her.

"Yes. I'm using a recipe that Sarah gave me. Sarah is my colleague Mark's wife, they invited me round for dinner the other day to welcome me into my new job. That's just the sort of nice people they have working there."

"Well, I'm glad you're doing so well, Martin." Carolyn said sweetly. "I have to say we're really doing rather well too. I do hope you're not _too_ worried about how you dropped us right in it because our new Captain is settling in wonderfully. We have more business than ever."

"Oh, well… that's good to hear. I'm pleased for you, Carolyn."

"Yes. It's all worked out terribly well."

"Actually, I don't-" Arthur began.

"Arthur, go and pick up those tins you threw Martin into." Carolyn snapped. Arthur went. "Now, Martin, stop being so ridiculous. We both know you-"

"I should go, I have things to pack to move into my new house. The house I can afford now, because I'm getting paid for the work I do." Martin took hold of his trolley and turned away. "Nice to see you, Carolyn."

"Martin, wait!" Carolyn was ignored. She called after him, furious. "Well, have fun selling postcards of aeroplanes, Martin, we'll carry on flying them!"

Martin left. Carolyn was still trying to calm her temper when Arthur came and stood beside her.

"Oh, he's gone." He said, disappointed. "The thing is, mum, I'm not sure Morris _is _settling in."

"Of course he's not, but I don't want Martin to know that! If he doesn't need us, we certainly don't need him!" Carolyn turned her trolley around with more force than necessary. She didn't feel any better for it. "Anyway, Morris might get better. See what he's like in Rome tonight."

"The thing is, I don't think he will be any better, mum."

Carolyn ignored him, mostly because she thought he was probably right.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I said a few chapters ago I was having trouble dividing the scenes in my head up into chapters, and I guess it doesn't help when I decide to add extra scenes like the first one here. I think it's sorted now though, maybe. At the moment there's going to be twelve chapters and a little epilogue. Thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/followed/favourited so far; I hope you'll stick with me until the end :) I'm determined to finish this story before the current series finishes broadcasting, if only because John Finnemore has said that in this series Martin is going to decide how much longer he can stay at MJN Air… :/ (Have a look at the interview on the Radio Times website, guys!) I feel so worried… :S Anyway. Onto the fic!

Chapter 9

_Arthur Shappey, Arthur Shappey, Arthur Shappey… _

Arthur was a naturally cheerful person, but he didn't really know why. As far as he was concerned, it would be impossible not to be, if everyone knew how brilliant the world was in general. People obviously didn't, though, or everyone would just be happy all of the time and most of the bad stuff in the world that made people unhappy would go away. Inside his head, Arthur was a philosopher.

_Arthur Shappey, Arthur Shappey, Arthur Shappey…_

Sometimes though, even Arthur felt a bit down in the dumps and in need of cheering up. Sometimes the world could be disappointing or wrong, or sometimes bad things or sad things happened. Arthur had a three step solution to the times when he was feeling down:

Do something fun and ignore it. By the time you're finished, the problem may have solved itself or if it hasn't at least you won't feel bad anymore.

If it won't solve itself and you don't feel better, fix it.

If you can't fix it or ignore it, use your mantra.

Arthur knew all about the power of positive thinking, and a lot of the books and tapes and things seemed to recommend repeating something over and over again until it was reinforced, and that was called _chanting a mantra_. Most of the books had boring ones like "I can do this!" or confusing ones like "Let (NAME) be (NAME)". Arthur had a better one though: _His _name. It turned out that if you said 'Arthur Shappey' enough times, it eventually turned into 'Arthur's happy', and then he was. It was like magic. His dad, back when he lived with them, had banned Arthur from doing it aloud, but Arthur still used it sometimes in his head, only in emergencies when he really needed a boost. He needed one today.

He had missed Martin since he had left, of course, and things just weren't as fun with Morris- and he didn't understand about the spiders. But so far Arthur had been okay, because he had kept thinking that it wouldn't be for long and that soon Martin would be back again and things would go back to normal. But when he had finally seen Martin again in the supermarket, his old Captain had just been angry with him about the hug, and then Arthur hadn't really been able to speak to him. He was a little annoyed that his mum hadn't even tried asking him to come back, but she just kept saying that Martin wouldn't, because he had a nice house now and a steady job and a salary and a girlfriend and he wouldn't give all that up to fly planes, however much he liked flying them. Arthur wondered if it was true and thought it probably was, which didn't fill him with much cheer.

_Arthur Shappey, Arthur Shappey, Arthur's- _Douglas interrupted the mantra before he could finish, arriving on board Gerti.

"Hello, Arthur." He said. "Is Captain Morose here yet?"

"Who?" Arthur asked dully. "Oh, Morris. No, I don't think so."

"Excellent." Douglas said. "In that case, Arthur, I have a job for you."

"Oh. Okay."

Douglas sighed. "Alright, Arthur, what is it? We're pressed for time though, so if you could keep the unburdening of your troubled soul short…?"

"We saw Skip today. In the supermarket. Martin, I mean, not the new skipper."

"Oh. And how was our errant captain?"

"Oh, he was good. He has a nice job and he's moving into a better flat and I think he might have a girlfriend."

"And that filled you with ennui?"

"I don't know. I don't know what that is."

Another sigh from Douglas. "It upset you?"

"Well… I guess, a bit. I mean, it's brilliant that he's having a good time and everything, but… well, mum said it means he probably won't come back."

"Arthur. In all Martin's gushing about his wonderful new life, did he at any point mention that he was flying aeroplanes?"

"No…"

"And what is the thing that Martin always wants to do most?"

"Fly aeroplanes." Arthur replied immediately. "But it's obviously not, is it, or he wouldn't be there doing that stuff, he'd be here going to Rome with us!"

"Oh, he's just being stubborn and overdramatic, he'll be back." Douglas brushed off Arthur's concerns, but in reality he felt much less sure of this. It did sound like Martin was doing rather well now he had given up on his dream. It could well be that he sold out to his new life. He hadn't expected it to last this long, after all. "But the first thing we need to do is deal with Captain Upstart. Otherwise, how will Martin come back?"

"Okay… How do we do that?"

"I'm going to have to ask something very difficult of you, Arthur." He paused, giving the younger man time to brace himself. "I need you to get rid of that cobweb."

"What?! No! What about the spiders?!"

"Will you sacrifice them, Arthur, in the name of getting Martin back?"

Arthur wavered. "You promise it'll get him back? You absolutely promise?"

"When am I ever wrong?" Douglas asked, patting him bracingly on the back. "The spiders will soon make a new web, don't worry. Now, that's only the first part of your job today."

"There's more?" Arthur was getting nervous now. He didn't like multi-part jobs. He never did well at them.

"Yes, and it's even more vital than the spider web cleaning. When we get to Rome, I want you to insist on carrying Morris' case for him. You mustn't on any account let anyone else take it, okay?"

"Okay!" Arthur was considerably cheered by the fact the jobs seemed manageable and the promise that Martin would come back and the fact Douglas had a plan; and his plans always worked. "Why?"

"That you'll just have to wait and see, a magician never reveals his tricks. Especially not to the world's worst liar. Suffice to say, it will annoy our Captain a great deal and is strangely nostalgic of Martin's initiation into MJN Air, only much improved."

"You mean when it was Martin's first overnight stopover and you ordered every item from room service to be sent to his room?"

"Yes."

"And Skipper just got really mad and told mum, and mum made you pay the bill?"

"Yes."

"Only you didn't pay the bill, you made Skipper pay it because he lost that bet?"

"Yes."

"Oh yeah." Arthur said happily. "Aww, good memories. He really was cross though, especially about that girl you found."

"Oh yes." Douglas had almost forgotten that himself. "She seemed to rather take a shine to you, didn't she?"

"Yeah." Arthur said. "I had to tell her I had a girlfriend. Still… she was quite nice, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was." Douglas said. "Well, this is going to be a bit like that, only better."

"Brilliant!"

"Good." Douglas said. "Then don't forget, carry his bags, take down the cobwebs, and absolute best behaviour." He clasped Arthur's shoulder for effect. "Martin is counting on you, Arthur."

"Righto, Douglas!" Arthur said and dashed off for his vacuum, all energy and vigour again. Douglas felt slight pangs of guilt for playing the Martin card. He couldn't really guarantee if Martin really would come back, and to be honest, if Arthur's report was true, he wasn't sure he should. Martin had enjoyed so little luck in life, it only seemed right to let him enjoy it.

But, Martin or no Martin, one thing was clear: Captain Morris Montague needed taking down a peg or two, and Douglas Richardson was just the man to do it.

oooooooooooooooo

"I'm finished with your bookshelves. It's alphabetical." Liz said as Martin emerged from the bathroom, a now-empty packing box in hand. Liz, meanwhile, had been putting his books onto the bookcase for him. Sadly, they barely took up three shelves. Martin liked to read, but usually from the library and then only when he had time. Now he had a steadier working pattern, perhaps he might get through a few more novels.

"By title or by author?"

"By title."

"Oh, I usually do it by author."

"But that's just stupid. Who, when looking for a book, goes 'Oh, I'll just get that one by Trevor Thom'? No-one!"

"I do."

Liz sighed and turned back to the shelves. "Fine, I'll do them again. But I'm keeping fiction and non-fiction separate."

"Just leave it." Martin said. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"No, Martin, this is the last thing and then we're finished."

"Alright, then I'll do the non-fiction." Martin said, knowing it was largely flight manuals which he wanted to put in order of volume. "I really can't thank you enough, Liz. I probably wouldn't have unpacked for weeks if it wasn't for you."

"Oh, it's no trouble." She said. "It didn't take long. I suppose that's the benefit of buying a furnished flat."

"Yes, you're right." Martin said, not wanting to explain that the only furniture he'd had in the student room was a bed, chair, desk and wardrobe, none of which had been his. They finished the shelving in relative silence, relieved only by the occasional criticism of his taste in fiction, which seemed to be largely made up of James Patterson, but only because he was always on the 3 for £5 deal in the Works. That done, Liz went to make a cup of tea as Martin got rid of the boxes before they finally collapsed onto the sofa.

"Well done us." Liz said. "Job well done."

"Thank you for doing it." Martin said.

"Hmm, no problem, I had fun."

They sat in silence, sipping, until Liz started giggling. Martin couldn't help joining in.

"This sofa is crap, isn't it?" Liz said, finally.

"Yes." Martin agreed. "It's sunken, yet somehow, still lumpy."

"Like sitting on a wagon wheel."

"A wheel?"

"No, a Wagon Wheel. The biscuit."

"Oh! Yes! Yes, I see what you mean." They caught each other's eyes and ended up laughing again. Martin was surprised by how at ease he felt. He felt a bit nervous, but in a good way, as if it was equal parts nerves and excitement. Almost equal parts. She was still looking into his eyes. He wondered if he should kiss her. He leant forward.

"I'm starving, weren't you going to make dinner?" She asked, pushing him gently away. Martin stood up, embarrassed.

"Yes! Yes, sorry, I'll start right away!" Martin said, heading into the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and held his face there, pretending to be looking while the cold cooled his face down. It was the curse of the ginger, to still blush when he was well into his thirties. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to look at, because the only thing in the fridge was the bottle of milk they had bought on the way, along with the tea bags. "Um, Liz, did you unpack the food?"

"No, I didn't see any. There's nothing in the fridge."

Martin resisted the urge to smack his head off the fridge door. A thousand lies passed through his mind, but none of them were plausible.

"Did you forget the food for dinner?" She asked him directly. Martin froze.

"Um…"

She laughed. "Oh, let the students have it. Let's just get something to eat down the pub."

"Really?" Martin blinked. "I thought you said you only went drinking with your good friends?"

"I did say that." Liz agreed, calmly getting her coat. "But I also said once you'd helped someone move you were friends for life. Come on." She left. After a brief search for his van keys, Martin followed, feeling very much that he would follow her anywhere if she let him. He found her next to his van, looking at the name painted on the side. He had confessed he was a man with a van when he had picked her up that morning, and she hadn't seemed to mind, but that didn't mean he wanted her examining it that closely. He shuffled awkwardly, opening the door for her.

"Icarus Removals." She said, climbing in. "It's a good name. Reminds me of courage, perseverance, all that good stuff."

_Oh. _Martin thought.

Then he thought, _I think I'm in love._

He managed not to say anything, but he smiled as he closed her door.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Hey everyone, sorry for the delay on this chapter. I maintain it has everything to do with the fact I did actually have to study this week, and nothing to do with the fact I went to see Les Misérables at the cinema, twice. Ahem. That aside, may I briefly and shamelessly plug my sister **Ashtrees** who has at long last got a fanfiction account? A lot of ideas in this story and particularly in my Sherlock/Harry Potter cross over came from conversations with her, and if she hadn't made me I would never have gotten around to this story at all. She's written an interesting piece about Sherlock and his Aspergers, go check it out :) Okay, onto the chapter!

Chapter 10

Gerti touched down in Rome after what was probably the most professional flight in MJN Air's history. True, Arthur had been his usual bumbling self, but there hadn't been any major disasters, the spiders had all be exiled and the lads they were taking out for the stag party seemed to rather enjoy his antics. Douglas, meanwhile, had been the epitome of professionalism. No word games, no conversations unrelated to work, no corner cutting; everything done as Martin used to tell him to do it, which it was fairly safe to assume would be the CAA approved way of doing it. Morris had noticed and had spent most of the flight looking unbearably smug, while Douglas spent it bracing himself for a patronising lecture. He wasn't disappointed.

"Thank you for today, Mr Richardson."

"You're welcome. After all, I was only doing my job."

"That's right, and you did it very well. You have conducted yourself perfectly, your behaviour has been spot on." Douglas resisted the urge to make a smart comment as Morris levered himself out of his chair. "I knew you could be a good pilot, under the appropriate leadership."

"Oh really?" It slipped out before Douglas could stop himself. "And that would be your leadership, would it?"

"Not everyone has it in them to be a captain, Mr Richardson, that's all." Morris pointedly put on his hat and headed out into the cabin. Douglas gave himself a minute to cool down, knowing he was dangerously close to losing control. He just had to wait a few more hours, it would be worth it. And he wouldn't even have to lie.

The plan itself was a simple one. Admittedly it relied in part on Arthur, but in fairness to the steward, he played his part perfectly. When they got out of the taxi at the hotel and the driver helped Morris unload them from the boot, he immediately said "I'll take that for you, Captain!"

"Why?" Morris, unfortunately, wasn't a complete idiot. Douglas was relying on his thinking Arthur was, and his vanity, for this to play out.

"I don't know, I just really want to carry your bags." Arthur said. "Because you're the captain, Captain."

"I see. Well, thank you, Arthur." He said, as Douglas had known he would. "Are you sure you can manage both?"

"Yes, no problem!" Arthur said, taking the case. Douglas stepped forward and lead the way inside. They checked in and Arthur and Morris made their way upstairs, but not before Arthur had had a minor disagreement with the bellboy about who should carry the bags upstairs and won. Douglas lingered until they were out of earshot, and then spoke to the manager.

"Thank you." He said. "And I trust we can count on your discretion?" He casually placed a hundred euro note down on the counter. The manager accepted it, mystified. "Thank you." Douglas said. "I'm certain that the Royal Family of Andorra will be most pleased to hear of your diligence."

The man gaped at him, then bowed low and thanked him, ensuring him that no-one would know of his esteemed guest. Douglas went upstairs without bothering to buy the hovering bellboy's silence. This venture had already cost him quite enough and besides, the last thing he wanted was silence. He wanted the young man and probably the manager to tell everyone about the man they had seen come in, have the door held open for him and his baggage carried and someone to deal with the staff for him; and the comments about the Royal Family of a small European country they were probably googling even now. It was hardly Douglas' fault if they concluded Morris to be the co-prince of Andorra, namely the Bishop of Urgell. It wasn't like he had told them he was, although he may have slightly modified the Wikipedia page the night before, so it now included a picture remarkably like the one Morris had submitted to the MJN Air files. But that was another matter.

Morris was probably quite mystified when he was offered a complimentary upgrade to the penthouse suite, and when he was sent a large bouquet of flowers and some champagne as a courtesy from the hotel, but Douglas didn't think he would mind. Anyway, he would need to be well-rested to deal with the press the next morning. The thing about Rome was, they were quite interested in the behaviour of bishops, particularly why one might sneak into a budget hotel to stay just one night without telling anyone, disguised as a pilot.

Morris was late down to breakfast the following morning. Douglas suspected that it might have something to do with the small camp of photographers that had swarmed on the road outside overnight, all with their cameras pointed at the penthouse suite; and the number of eager reporters that had attempted to get up to said suite to talk to the occupant. In all honesty, Douglas had been hoping for a better turn out, and perhaps some television stations rather than just newspapers. Still, it wasn't bad for a first try, and it had the desired effect. Morris marched into the dining room, clearly livid.

"What have you _done_?" He demanded.

"This morning?" Douglas asked innocently. "Well, Arthur and I have just finished a hearty breakfast and now I'm reading about Andorra. Fascinating country, tucked right down into the corner of France and Spain. Did you know its capital city is the highest capital city in Europe?"

"You know what I mean!" Morris was talking so loudly now people were looking over to them. "Why did you feel the need to tell them I was the prince of this Andorra place? It was childish, infantile-"

"Aww, it was just a bit of harmless fun." Douglas said. "A kind of welcome to MJN Air. We did it to Martin, too."

"Only he got a call girl." Arthur said helpfully.

"Yes, he did." Douglas agreed. "But I didn't think you'd appreciate that, Captain, so I had to think of an all new initiation for you. Anyway, I didn't tell them anything. I simply dropped the Royal Family of Andorra into conversation and they assumed. The thing is, though, they don't even _have _a Royal Family, they are co-ruled by the princes more usually known as the President of France and the Bishop of Urgell. It isn't my fault if the hotel staff and the press made an erroneous assumption."

"I rather think it is, Mr Richardson. Did you even think about the consequences of your actions? What if the real Bishop gets excommunicated over this? What if we get arrested for impersonating him?"

"Impersonating a Bishop." Douglas repeated. "Is that a crime now? What a strange old world. It will certainly make fancy dress shops rethink some of their stock."

"Don't be flippant, Mr Richardson, you know perfectly well it's fraud!"

"No it isn't. Neither of us actually _said _you were the prince, did we? We didn't even imply it. No, it will just be written off as a harmless and very well organised prank. On a related subject," Douglas casually sipped his coffee. "Did you know they used to have Days of Misrule for centuries here? Yes, it was all fun and festivities, pranks and jolly japes. One thing they used to do was take a foolish young boy with no idea about the real world, dress him up as a Bishop, and let him pretend to be in charge."

"They still had to do what he told them." Morris said, leaning in a little too close to Douglas' face.

"Yes, they did." Douglas agreed, not backing away. "But not for long."

_Well, _He thought, satisfied with his day's labour, _It's certainly going to be an interesting flight home._

oooooooooooooooooo

Some food and several drinks after they had entered the pub, Liz asked Martin the question he really didn't want her to ask.

"So why all the flight manuals?" She said, innocent of the distress she would cause. "I get that you like planes, but it seems like a little much for an amateur."

Martin thought about lying, but perhaps part of him wanted to talk about it, or perhaps it was just habit that made him say "I'm not an amateur though. Well, I wasn't. I was a pilot. I was a captain, for a while."

"Really? So why leave?"

"I made a mistake." Martin said, haltingly, and suddenly this was absolutely the last thing he wanted to talk about again. "But that's all in the past."

"Is it?"

"Most definitely." Martin said, tripping over his tongue. The alcohol made his mouth slippery and the words were having trouble getting out. "It's all, most definitely, totally in the past."

"Let's do karaoke!" Liz was either trying to make him feel better or had forgotten what they were talking about. Either way, Martin was not keen on the idea.

"Oh, no. No, no, no." He said. "Let's just have another drink. I'm not a good singer."

"Come on." Liz wheedled. "I always say you're friends for life once you've done karaoke with them."

"I thought we were friends for life because we moved together." Martin suddenly realised what he had said, and laughed. "I mean, you _helped _me move. Not that we moved in together. No, wait, Liz, no, stop!"

Too late. She had hauled him up onto the little raised stage in the corner. At least no-one was looking at them, but that soon changed as they launched into a unique interpretation of Meatloaf's _Paradise by the Dashboard Light_. Martin found he rather enjoyed it. It reminded him of his boyhood, when he had been very young and they'd had the album spinning round and round on his friend Paul Jones' very first record player that he had got second hand from his dad. Martin had been so jealous of Paul back then. He wondered what had ever happened to him, and reached no conclusion. Paul's mum had given Paul's dad a rollicking when she realised they had the album; she said it was 'inappropriate', which had naturally made the boys love it even before they understood what it was about. Martin also wondered if Liz's choice of a song about sexual endeavour was some sort of signal, and reached no conclusion. He didn't think about it too much though, because he was thoroughly enjoying singing it. It felt good. The world felt good, like a good, fun place, and he felt very happy, except that he missed flying planes.

Liz stayed on the stage after they had finished to give an encore that nobody demanded except Martin. She chose _Chiquitita_, which had been Martin's mother's favourite song. Martin began to feel a bit weepy. It was at this point he decided he probably shouldn't drive the van home. He applauded enthusiastically for Liz as she made her way back over to the table. She was laughing helplessly.

"That was a disaster." She said.

"No it wasn't, I thought you were very good!"

"No, I mean, I was seen by the parents of one of the children in my glass- class!" She covered her mouth, trying to stop the giggles. "Do you think they realised I was drunk?"

"Um… probably."

"I'm supposed to be responsible for children."

"You're responsible for children." Martin agreed and suddenly the whole thing seemed rather funny, and he was laughing too, in spite of Liz guiltily shushing him between her own outbursts of giggles. "Should we go? Do you want to leave?" Martin asked. "I can't drive." He added.

"We better had, or I'll sing again."

They sang again anyway, as they walked down the road. A lot of people gave them funny looks, but they weren't actually as drunk as everyone thought; especially not out in the sobering chill of the night air. They were doing it because it was fun and somehow quite liberating, to sing in the street regardless of who heard and what they thought. It was fun and Martin made a mental note that if he ever saw Arthur again, he would tell him that this could be added to his list of small things that made people perfectly happy. Then he scribbled the mental note out, because encouraging Arthur to sing in public places was not a good idea. Then they reached Liz's house, much sooner than Martin would have liked. He wanted to kiss her and realised it was one of those times he just needed to take the initiative, one of those times he needed to be confident, be a man. They'd had a good night, surely he had charmed her. The mood was right, the time was right; everything else was going right for him- maybe the magic would last, maybe it would touch this too. Still, she had evaded him earlier, when the mood was wrong. He had to respect that, so he approached very slowly, very gently, and she put her hand to his cheek and he thought, for a moment- but then she turned away.

"I'm sorry, Martin, I can't." She said. "I don't want this to turn into a… thing."

"Oh." Martin said. "I sort of thought it was already a thing."

"Oh, Martin, I would love it to be a thing." She bit her lip, nervous. "But I'm moving myself soon, to Manchester. Really soon. And I don't want to leave anything… any _thing _behind. It's a headteacher's job. A good job. I'm getting right out of Fitton and I'm never coming back."

"Oh." Martin said, realising he had to say something. He left it at that.

"But… um, you're definitely in the friend zone, Martin!" She said, as if it was a compliment. It didn't help in the slightest. Neither did her next comment, "I wish you'd turned up a year or two ago."

"Yes, me too."

He went home, cursing, although he didn't know why he had expected any different. He may have left MJN Air and got a proper job, but he was still the same old Martin, with the same old luck.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: This is the chapter in which I pretend I know what a log book is for and how you go about filling it in. For the purposes of the story, I've decided it's a hand-written record of what you had responsibility for on each flight, how many hours you did, what the weather and the wind speed was, any delays and why and various technical details. I also decided it's a CAA requirement to keep it reasonably up to date. Probably both of those are incorrect, but the story wouldn't work otherwise, so I hope you'll just forgive it and read on :)

Chapter Eleven

Douglas hadn't been at all affected by the stony and venomous silence on the flight deck on the way back from Rome. In fact, it had just helped fuel his somewhat spiteful glee at the way his plan had gone. He had, he knew, well and truly got one over on Morris; and while he knew Morris was bound to retaliate, he wasn't particularly worried. Carolyn wouldn't fire him, and her tellings off were water off a duck's back by now. No, Douglas didn't have the slightest regret about what he had done, and although they didn't have a flight on Monday went into the airfield without argument when he was summoned. He found Arthur wandering about a little way from the portacabin that served as their office.

"Good morning, Arthur."

"Hi Douglas." He sounded distinctly uncheery. Arthur's moods were always refreshingly obvious and Douglas probably could have told how much trouble he was in just from the way Arthur had greeted him; but as it was, it wasn't necessary. The sound of Carolyn's voice, raised and furious, was enough to alert anyone to how things were going.

"How long have they been at it?" Douglas asked.

"About half an hour." Arthur said. "He came in and asked mum to call you, so she did, and then they started talking and Morris told me to leave so I did, and not long after that they started shouting."

"Oh dear." Douglas said, completely insincere. "It seems like Captain Montague may be on his way out. What a terrible shame."

Remarkably Morris then appeared, marching out of the office with a large pile of files in his arms. He smiled malevolently at Douglas.

"Good morning, Mr Richardson. Why don't you go through to the office? I believe Carolyn wants a little word."

"Oh really? Well then, do excuse me. Mustn't keep her waiting."

"Perhaps after your meeting you could spend the day doing your log book," Morris said, "As I'll be taking them away this evening to send to the CAA adjudicators. After all, records must be kept properly up to date if we don't want to incur a penalty."

"Oh, well, we wouldn't want that. I'm sorry, Morris, but I'm bored of being passively threatened now, so I'm going to go in and talk to Carolyn. Bye." Douglas went into the office, Arthur following closely behind him.

"I'm not sure you should have said that, Douglas." He said.

"Nonsense, I'm not going to let him bully me just because-"

"You will let him bully you because I say so." Carolyn interrupted. "This is serious, Douglas. He wants me to fire you."

"Oh, what a fuss." Douglas said. "It was just a little joke."

"Little? It made the national newspapers!"

"Yes, I admit, I was rather pleased with that."

"Enough!" Carolyn snapped. "You've had your fun, Douglas, but that's enough now. We may not like him, but we need him."

"We could always ask Martin to come back." Arthur piped up. "I'm sure if we told him about Morris then-"

"No." Carolyn cut him off, curtly.

"But I've thought it all through!" Arthur protested. "He only left because he got sick while he was flying, so all we need to do is tell him it's okay and that we don't mind and he'll come back!"

"I said _no, _Arthur." Carolyn sniffed. "I'm not going crawling back to him just because Morris is a nuisance. Anyway, I'm not sure he would come back even if we asked. If he did, he would be a fool."

"She's right." Douglas said. "If what you told me is true, Arthur, Martin has a decent job now, or at least decent enough that he can afford his own house, and if he has a girlfriend to think of I doubt he'll want to come back to an unpaid job with irregular hours."

"But you promised he'd come back! Anyway, what is he going to do if he's not flying planes?"

"Oh, the usual things, I suspect." Douglas shrugged. "He'll probably get himself a job as a store manager eventually, marry this girl and have a child before they get too old… you know, the sort of lives people lead when they aren't stuck in the world's worst airline. To be honest, Arthur, I'm not sure we have any right to ask him to give that up, even if he would."

"Oh. Okay."

Douglas turned away from Arthur's disappointed face, feeling slightly guilty. "Anyway." He said, bracingly. "Just because we can't have Martin doesn't mean we have to have Morris, does it? There must be tons of new or unemployed pilots who would just do it for a bit of experience."

"Do you know how many people have replied to my advertisement, Douglas?" Carolyn asked. "I'll tell you- One. I haven't taken it down, it's still there, and yet Morris is the only one who has applied. It seems people don't want to work for the world's worst airline." She was clearly offended. The room fell into silence.

"We could always retire." Douglas said, quietly.

"To what?!" Carolyn threw her arms up in frustration. "I certainly hope you've been paying into a private pension scheme Douglas, because as I told you when I took you on, MJN Air won't be able to provide for me, let alone you."

"I have, as it happens." Douglas said.

"Oh, good. And is it enough for you to live on for the next eight or nine years until you can claim a state pension?"

"Ah." Douglas said. It was all he could say.

"As for me, I don't even have that luxury." Carolyn continued. "We would have to find other jobs. I hate to break it to you, but it's difficult enough at the moment for bright young things with seventeen A-levels, a wealth of relevant experience, a gap year saving orphans in the Congo and a PhD in Nuclear Physics to get jobs. They are not going to take on an aging pilot with a criminal record and the ex-manager of a catastrophically failed air charter firm. We would be lucky to get jobs shelf stacking in Tesco's. With Arthur."

"Oh." Douglas said again.

"Which means," Carolyn said. "We don't have a choice. Even if he is so far up his own backside he thinks he could do a better job of running the business than I could and insists on taking all the records home to 'look them over'."

"Carolyn?" Douglas was surprised. "Is that what he's done now?"

"Yes! And then he said he would contact me afterwards so we could 'Reimagine our business strategy'! The cheek of it!" The rage that had been bubbling underneath Carolyn's skin finally resurfaced. "I should tell him where he can stick his reimaginings."

"You mean you didn't already?"

"No, I didn't! Well I couldn't, could I? Like I told you, until someone else wants to come here and work for free, we need him." She sighed deeply. "I don't like it either, Douglas, I really don't; but if you don't start swallowing your pride and doing as he tells you, he'll leave and then it's shelf-stacking or burger-flipping all round. So please, just this once, for all our sakes, do you think you could see your way to just filling in your log book?"

"Well, Carolyn, I would, but there is a slight problem."

"Which is?"

"As you may be aware, I haven't filled in my log book since before Reg left, and I only did it occasionally then, when the boredom levels were at their most toxic. That means I have quite a large gap to fill, and while my memory for detail is certainly nothing to be ashamed of, it doesn't quite stretch to what the wind speed was on a sunny May morning eight years ago."

"All the weather reports are in the records- ah." Carolyn suddenly realised. "Damn."

"Yes."

"What's the matter?" Arthur asked.

"Douglas can't fill out his log book without the records." Carolyn said.

"Which Morris has just taken away with him, probably deliberately." Douglas finished. "Well, as revenges go, it's certainly a thorough one. If he reports me to the CAA, it'll be hard to convince them not to take my license this time."

"They can't!" Arthur said. "I mean, I know it's not as easy as on paper, but can't you use the ones on the computer and fill it out with that?"

"We don't have any on the computer, Arthur, not really." Carolyn said. "There might be a few booking confirmations, but I do everything on paper, I've _always _done everything on paper."

"Yeah, I know, but I've been scanning it all in." They stared at him, so he carried on. "Well, you see, last year Skipper- old Skipper- Martin said we should digitise everything so we could keep a copy, and mum, you told him to shut up, so he got me to do it whenever you weren't looking. It took ages, but I think I have everything except Rome." He leant over Carolyn and clicked around a bit on the ancient computer, pulling up a folder in which, neatly labelled and ordered, was the paperwork for each flight in MJN Air's short history.

"You did this, Arthur?" Carolyn had to check. She knew that Arthur had a strangely practical skill when it came to computers and could usually make them do the things he wanted them to, but this must have been a lot of work and neither patience nor methodical working were Arthur's strong points.

"Yeah. Well, Skipper showed me how I should scan them and order them and do the titles and stuff, but I did the rest. I did most of it when we were on standby for Mr Goddard, when I was building the website." Arthur looked anxiously at Douglas. "Will it help?"

"This, Arthur, is exactly what I need. In fact, it's brilliant." Douglas said. Arthur beamed. "There is one more thing you can help me with, though."

"Okay, what?"

"Finding my log book."

oooooooooo

Martin's colleagues were getting worried. It was a good thing Mondays weren't his day to do duty, because he was completely out of it. The display he had been helping Suzanne with in honour of Air History Week (something the museum had invented) was distinctly lack lustre and even his beloved Local History section had only been given a quick straighten up. Gloria approached the problem with her usual direct sympathy.

"Are you alright, love?" She asked. "You're walking round with a face like a wet Wednesday."

"Sorry." Martin answered with a sigh. "I'll be alright, don't worry."

"Oh, come now, you aren't yourself at all. Did something happen?"

"No." Martin said and knew if he was honest that it was true. "Not really. I just… I hoped something would work out and now I know it won't and it's a bit disappointing, that's all."

"Ah, now, you never know what's round the corner." Gloria said, comfortingly. "Look, I'll make a cup of tea and after that we'll see if we can breathe some life into that display, alright?"

"Alright." Martin said. "Thanks, Gloria." While she bustled off, he went and began sorting out the stationary; the little rubbers and pencil sharpeners that always seemed to get mixed into the wrong compartments in the display table. Suddenly, he felt the peculiar sensation that he was looking at his life from the outside, looking at the sad, lonely man in his thirties spending his life pulling errant pencils out of the ruler section. He missed flying, missed it so much it was painful, even MJN Air had been _something_. He was beginning to wonder if he had made the wrong decision. Perhaps one mistake wasn't enough to have quit over.

_One mistake_, He reminded himself, _That could have killed a dozen people. If you had, would you still think were safe to fly again?_

The answer, of course, was no. Which meant this was it. Rubbers and rulers and model planes for the rest of his life, totally grounded. Great.

Before Martin could sink too deep into his self-pity, Gloria called him from the back room.

"Martin, your mobile's ringing! You'd better answer it, it could be important."

Thinking it was unlikely to be that important, Martin nevertheless went to answer it, knowing Gloria would insist. Thankfully she took her tea and went out into the store to give him some privacy, because when Martin saw the caller ID, he didn't think this was going to be a very pleasant conversation. It was Liz, and he hadn't heard from her since Saturday. He felt the smallest hope unfolding in the back of his mind, that maybe, just maybe, something had changed.

"Hello?" He said.

"Hi, Martin, it's Liz."

"Hello. How are you?"

"I'm okay. The kids are out on their lunch break so I thought I'd call, since I didn't yesterday. I wanted to apologise. It was childish of me to think that as long as I called it friendship that's all it would be and I'm really sorry."

"I think we just had different intentions. I suppose you did tell me it was 'as friends'." Martin said. "But you know, I was thinking about it yesterday and Manchester really isn't that far away, so-"

"Martin, no, we can't. It wouldn't be fair on either of us to get into something now. I don't think either of us need the stress."

"I suppose not."

"We'll keep in touch though, won't we? I'd hate it if we couldn't be friends."

"Of course." Martin said, though he didn't really mean it. He assumed it would die off naturally now, in its own time. It was a shame though. "I hope you like Manchester."

They chatted civilly for a while, even the awkwardness starting to fade slightly as they went on, because that was what adults did. Still, the call was brief and when Liz rung off to get back to her class, it seemed to Martin that neither of them had said what they really wanted to.

oooooooooo

An exhaustive search of the MJN Air office had not revealed anything vaguely resembling the First Officer's long-neglected log book, and so the search had moved to Gerti's various lockers and storage compartments. It was probably a good place to check, as it had been Martin's stashing place of choice and perhaps he had put Douglas' with his. Douglas had hoped Martin had left his behind and he could just copy the relevant details, but alas, it wasn't to be. Martin's log book had disappeared entirely, probably gone home with the captain. Douglas' was tucked neatly onto the left hand side of the very top shelf in the locker, looking remarkably unsullied and pristine after years of neglect. Arthur, balancing awkwardly on a stool, found it and handed it down to Douglas. Douglas flipped through.

"This isn't mine." He said. "That's Martin's writing, it must be his." As he said so, he reached the front pages, where the writing abruptly changed to his own hand, and the entries became far less frequent and thorough. Douglas checked the front. It had his name on it. He went back to the later pages. It was an entry for the last flight he had done with Martin, the one where he had fallen asleep on the way home. "Oh."

"What?" Arthur asked.

"It's complete. Martin's been filling it in. He must have done it in mine instead of his by accident. Still, it's convenient for me." Douglas turned to an entry at random and started reading it, and as he did so, the slow realisation came upon him that this was no accident. Each page was completed with Martin's meticulous accuracy, but with Douglas' records, his landings, his take offs, his load sheets. Even the section for additional comments had been completed with remarks about the quality of the flight, things to watch out for or to be noted, and plenty of praise for his esteemed captain who he was so lucky to be flying with. Douglas didn't mind. As far as he was concerned at that moment Martin could have written whatever he liked and it wouldn't have mattered. All Douglas had to do was sign the pages, and his book would be as legally required. "Oh. It appears it wasn't an accident." He wasn't sure what else to say.

"Oh, Douglas." Arthur said in quiet awe. "Skip was really worried, after our last course. He said you were one strike away from losing your pilot's license. He must have…"

"Yes." Douglas said. He put the book carefully into his pocket and turned to leave. "Alright, Arthur, you win. Let's go and get our Captain back."

"Hooray!" Arthur cheered. "Oh, but what about his girlfriend and new house and…?"

"Ask yourself, are any of those things on an aeroplane?"

"No."

"Exactly. Now, Arthur, I suggest we both go and get changed."

"Why? We don't have a flight."

"No." Douglas agreed, taking his hat from where he had left it on the co-pilot's chair. "But some things are best done in uniform."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Well, it's almost one in the morning, but this story is finally finished! I know I said it would be 12 chapters and an epilogue, but in the end I decided it would be better to have it all at once. So this is the well and truly absolutely final chapter, aww- but it is double length! I've had a lot of fun writing this, but I'm glad I was able to finish it before Series Four got too far under way. (Without spoilering too much, certain ships are now well underway, and shipping hard XD) Thank you all for reading and I hope you've enjoyed!

Chapter Twelve

"Carolyn, get your coat." Douglas said, marching into the office.

"Why, where are we going? Why are you in uniform?"

"We're going to go and get Martin to come back!" Arthur said, getting her coat off the hook and holding it eagerly out to her. "You're coming too."

"I most certainly am not." Carolyn turned to Douglas, trying to appeal to him. "What happened to Martin being better off without us?"

"Nonsense." Douglas dismissed. "It's Martin, his rotten luck is bound to catch up with him eventually either way; isn't it better he has it doing what he loves?"

"No, absolutely not! I'm not going begging to Martin just because you want a captain you can bully."

"Yes, alright, I do." Douglas said, impatiently holding the coat out. "But I rather think you do as well, Carolyn, so stop being so stubborn, swallow your pride and put your coat on."

"…No."

"Fine, then I'll resign."

"Oh, don't be so stupid." She laughed. "Forgive me, Douglas, but I don't believe you're about to fall on your sword for Martin."

"I'm not, but equally I would find shelf stacking preferable to working one more flight with Morris. So, if we don't at least try to get Martin back, I'll resign."

"Yeah, me too!" Arthur chipped in.

"Arthur!"

"We can't go on like this, Carolyn." Douglas said. "Admit it."

"Oh, alright!" She snapped, pulling her coat on. "Let's go then, before I change my mind." Douglas smiled and held the door open for her, knowing that she had wanted to all along. At least it hadn't been too difficult to overcome her pride. She had probably been waiting for them to change her mind for her.

oooooooooo

"No no no no no! No, no, you can't be here! No, go away!"

"Well, that's a charming welcome." Douglas said. "Why shouldn't we be here?"

"Because… you're just here to bother me." Martin said, fully aware of how lame his answer sounded. He had been quite happily going about his business, doing a gap check out in the shop, letting the work take over his mind and distract from the awkwardness with Liz and from his usual refuge, which was daydreaming about flying. He had always comforted himself that way, ever since he was a child. He would dream of being in the air and feel better; but that day, it was just too much. He couldn't think about flying without thinking about the mistake he had almost made, about MJN Air. His mind kept circling around the question of whether he had made a mistake in leaving. His resolve was already ready to crumble, the last thing he needed was his old colleagues turning up at his workplace to rub his face in it. He could feel his palms starting to sweat as he glanced around nervously, looking for Suzanne. He just knew they were going to cause a scene.

"This place is brilliant, Skip!" Arthur said cheerfully, looking at the model planes. "I can see why you like it here."

"Yes, Arthur, perhaps you should lead the persuading to us." Douglas said.

"Persuading?" Martin asked. "Persuading for what?"

"Well-" Douglas began.

"Wait, you know what, save it." Martin said, going back to his clipboard. "I'm at work. I can't just stand around here chatting!"

"Why not, it's all you did at MJN." Carolyn brushed his protests aside. "Now, Martin, just stop it. I'm willing to put all this ridiculousness behind us, so if you show up for work tomorrow we'll forget all about it."

"What? Carolyn, no, I _can't_."

"Why not?" Arthur butted in. "Don't you miss it?"

"Of course I do." Martin sighed, his clipboard going limp in his arms as he realised it was useless to deny it. "But that's not the point, Arthur. Let's face it, I wasn't very good."

"You don't need to be!" Douglas was outraged. "Martin, we both know I'm good enough for the both of us. You're just there to work the intercom and wear the captain's hat."

"Douglas, you know I can't come back!"

"I don't see why not. Carolyn's willing and so am I." Douglas paused, wondering if he would really have to say it. It seemed so. "If you must know, Martin, I trust you. Given the amount of textbooks you have memorised, there's no-one I would feel safer flying with in an emergency, assuming you stopped panicking enough to remember what you know. After all, you did land Gerti perfectly in your sleep."

"Though I'd rather you didn't make a habit of that." Carolyn said quickly.

"You're a good pilot, Skipper. You're brilliant." Arthur said. "It's what you were born to do."

Martin found to his eternal shame that his eyes were growing warm. He turned quickly towards the shelf, pretending to count the Ducksford Air Museum coasters, trying not to cry. He had wanted to hear those words all his life, and they could have made him so happy- but what use were they now? It felt almost physically painful, he felt winded by it. It took a few deep breaths before he could answer.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, but I can't. I made my choice… I've started building a life. I have to go, we're about to close." He turned to flee for the refuge of the back room, but Carolyn grabbed his arm.

"Alright, Martin, that's enough." She said, her tones clipped. Martin recognised she was about to lose her temper and pulled his arm free. "If you insist on my saying it I will- we need you. Alright? We need you. Now stop being so silly and come back to work."

"Need me? What happened to your new pilot?"

"Nothing happened to him. Goodness only knows he's far too professional for that." Carolyn sniffed. "He is entirely professional at all times, too professional for MJN Air or his own good, so professional that he thinks he can run the business better than I can."

"Oh." Martin said. Carolyn glared at him, apparently able to hear him thinking that perhaps Morris could. He performed the best manoeuvre he could, and even that was stumbling. "Well, if he can help make MJN successful, that's good, isn't it?"

"But he's really mean!" Arthur blurted. Martin was shocked, and immediately his brain jumped to the worst conclusions. He wondered if Morris had actually committed a terribly violent crime in order to gain such an assessment. However, his transgressions turned out to be so minor, Martin could relax. "He made me kill the spiders! And he won't let me wear my hat!"

"Well, I'm sorry, Arthur, but we really shouldn't have cobwebs on the plane and your hat is… well…"

"He also nagged and nagged me so much," Douglas said when Martin's search for an adjective suitable for Arthur's hat failed. "I was forced to fill in my log book."

Martin stared at him, feeling his heart sink, which must be the cause of the sudden nausea turning in his stomach. In spite of their complaints, it seemed like Morris was a better Captain than him. He had actually convinced Douglas to fill in his log book, which meant Douglas must have seen-

"Incidentally, Martin…" Douglas cleared his throat. "Thanks."

"Oh. You're welcome. B-but…" He took a deep steadying breath, trying to blow the thoughts out of his mind that were clamouring at him to go back with them. "I really can't. It sounds like he's a good captain. Even if he is difficult to get used to, I'm sure in the end-"

"That's not what he said about you." Douglas interrupted.

Martin knew he should ignore it, but he couldn't. He had always wanted an actual professional's opinion on his work. "Why? What did he say?"

"He said we had been tragically mismanaged as a crew." Douglas said, perfectly straight faced. "Oh, and he said our operations and safety procedures were dangerously outdated and inadequate."

"But… I reviewed all of them, a few weeks before I left. I used the latest CAA guidelines, there's nothing wrong with them."

Martin was wavering, Carolyn could tell. She held her breath, letting Douglas handle it and praying Arthur would too. After all, manipulating Martin was Douglas' special skill.

"Nevertheless, that's what he said. He's updating them as we speak."

"But there's nothing wrong with them! What is there to change?!"

"How should I know?"

"He must have it wrong…" Martin said, glancing at his watch. "I finish in ten minutes, will he still be at the airfield?" Douglas affirmed that he would, as, after all, Morris had promised to return for the log books. "Alright, I'll come and talk to him. _Just _to talk to him! Now get out, we need to close."

They got out.

"Well done, Douglas." Carolyn said. "We almost have him. Once he's back on the airfield, he won't be able to resist."

"Hooray!" Arthur cheered. "It's funny Morris told you that, though, Douglas. I'm sure he told me that the ops were the only thing up to standard in our whole company."

"Yes, that is funny, isn't it?" Douglas decided it wasn't worth explaining. "But do me a favour, Arthur. Don't tell that to Martin."

oooooooooooo

It had been a strange drive back to the airfield. They had all gone together in Douglas' car, and as he drove Douglas had tried to help Martin prepare what he was going to say, but Martin had cut him off, still insisting that he wasn't coming back properly, that he was just going to have a word about the safety procedures. They let him carry on thinking that. Even Arthur seemed to have realised that it was the time to keep quiet. A few minutes later, they arrived.

"Is he here?" Martin asked. "Which is his car?"

"That one." Douglas said as they clambered out. "No doubt he's back for the log books."

"Oh." Martin couldn't help stopping. "It's a nice car."

He was suddenly very glad he hadn't brought the van.

"It's showy and self-aggrandising." Carolyn answered. "So, it suits him perfectly. Now, Martin, seriously, have you worked out what you're going to say to him?"

"No, I haven't." Martin said yet again. "I keep telling you, I'm just going to have a nice friendly chat about the CAA regulations."

"How fascinating." Douglas said. "We should have introduced you to Reg."

"Who?"

"Never mind that now, let's go and find our elusive enemy. I suggest two parties- Carolyn, Arthur, you go and check in the office and Martin and I will go on board Gerti." He was hoping, of course, that stepping aboard Gerti would provide the final push to get Martin over the edge of his pride and back into MJN. If nothing else, it was their best bet. Indeed, Martin seemed to approach the hanger with unusual reluctance. Douglas decided to say something before Martin had chance to build up too much mental resistance. "Have you really not thought of anything to say?"

"No, why should I?"

"Oh, no reason. Just in case, though?"

"Well…" Martin hesitated sheepishly. "I thought maybe, if I needed to, I could tell him MJN stood for _Martin's _Jet Now."

"Not bad." Douglas replied. "Of course, it could also stand for _Morris' _Jet Now."

"Oh, damn."

"Or indeed, _Morris Montague's _Jet Now."

"Yes, alright, just forget it." Martin said, suddenly realising that in spite of his irritation, somewhere deep down, he felt happy- or if not happy, at least content. It felt like old times, he realised, and he was enjoying it. As much as he liked his colleagues at the museum, there wasn't much verbal sparring to speak of. "I don't see why you all keep on anyway. I'm not here to tell him to leave, I'm just here to-"

"Are you sure?" Douglas asked. "Because not two minutes ago, you did call it _Martin's _Jet Now."

"I…"

"Oh, there he is," Douglas said, nodding ahead of them at a man climbing out of Gerti. "No doubt furious at my absent log book. Now, Martin, don't forget, for once, to stand up for yourself."

Martin would have asked 'how', but they were joined at that moment by Morris.

"Good evening, Mr Richardson." He said. "I see you've brought a friend. How charming."

"Yes, I have." Douglas agreed. "This is Martin, our old Captain. Captain, this is Morris."

"How nice to meet you." Morris said, ignoring the slight of Martin being addressed as captain and reaching over to shake hands.

"You too." Martin said, somewhat surprised at this cordial reception. "Actually, Morris, I was hoping to-"

"I'm sorry, Mr Crief, but I need to talk to Mr Richardson here. Business. I always say it's the captain's duty to be ever vigilant, always on duty. Otherwise, things get lax. People start making…" He looked Martin up and down, at the name badge and the dust on his knees from where he had been kneeling to check the bottom shelves. He raised a critical eyebrow and returned to finish his sentence. "…_mistakes_."

Martin seemed at a loss for anything to say, and Morris' attention turned to Douglas.

"Now then, Mr Richardson, I specifically told you to leave your log book out for me to collect, but I don't seem to be able to find it anywhere."

"Oh dear, how terribly remiss of me." Douglas said. "I must have taken it with me by mistake. Here." He pulled it out of his pocket, fully complete thanks to Martin and the ten minutes they'd waited for him, when Douglas had quickly signed all the pages. Morris took it without a word and turned lazily backwards through it, but seemed surprised to come on a complete page so soon and began to turn more frantically. He forgot, in his confusion, to hide his emotions and his face twisted in rage, his hands crumpled the pages at the edges, and Douglas realised he had never really calmed down about Rome, that it had all been building up inside him, and the failure to get Douglas fired may just have lit the fuse that would make him explode. Morris had reached the front pages now, the ones Douglas had actually done himself.

"Fraud!" He crowed triumphantly. "This isn't your own work! The handwriting clearly changes!"

"Yes, it does." Douglas agreed. "But you see, it isn't fraud, because I still wrote it."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I don't like to talk about this much because it was quite harrowing, but you see, I was born left-handed. Only a few years ago, I had a nasty fall and tragically broke my left arm."

"Oh yes." Martin jumped in helpfully, as eager to cover up his part in the deception as Douglas was. "I remember that. It was awful. I… I couldn't believe it when you said you'd-"

"Fallen out of a tree." Douglas said smoothly. "I was climbing them with my daughter. Anyway, it was such a pain I had to learn to write with my non-dominant right hand, resulting in the appalling, barely legible scrawl you see before you. And of course, even after my arm had healed I just never quite lost the habit."

"How odd, then, that it should be so like _Captain _Crief's handwriting!" Morris rounded on Martin. "If you are this weak willed and lax about discipline it's no wonder this company is in the state it's in! If you can't even get your crew to fulfil their responsibilities then you shouldn't have any responsibilities! It's a good thing you quit because judging by the mess you left behind you there has never been anyone so tragically ill-suited to being in command!"

"Enough!" Seeing Martin flinch, Douglas stepped in. "I think you've said enough, thank you."

"Well, I don't think I have, Mr Richardson, and I don't think I need to remind you that you have no authority over me." Morris squared up to him. "I know your type, the type who has to bully everyone, but you're a washed-up loser of a pilot unable to get a proper job and your prey will have to keep getting smaller and smaller and one day the only person you'll still be able to bully will be your daughter."

"You-!"

"Douglas." Martin said, warningly. He could see his friend was about to snap, and the last thing they needed was for it to come to blows. Morris seemed exactly the type who would make sure Douglas threw the first punch and then make sure his assailant got fired, even if he had to go to the CAA to do it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot. No doubt you're barely allowed to see her in order to bully her, between the divorce and the adultery and the smuggling and the embezzlement and the alcoholism. I can't blame your ex-wife, I wouldn't be keen on you being involved in a child's life either."

"Be quiet, my daughter has nothing to do with this!" Douglas said. He knew Morris was deliberately trying to get under his skin. He knew it, but that didn't stop it from working. It was a low blow and all Douglas wanted to do was return the favour. His hands balled up into fists.

"Douglas, no! You can't!" Martin, panicking now, caught hold of the other's man's arm, which only served to enrage Douglas more. He pulled away, taking a step towards Morris.

"Oh, just let him go, Captain." Morris smirked. "He obviously wants to. Is this what you do when your daughter annoys you too?"

"Right!"

"No! Douglas, no!"

Morris opened his mouth to make another smart remark but it was sent back down his throat by a fist making a hard connection with his lip and nose. He was knocked to the floor, clutching it, blood coming between his fingers.

Douglas blinked at the prone captain, his anger evaporating. "Martin." He said, feeling, for once, completely at a loss for words.

Martin didn't say anything either, apparently as shocked as the rest of them. He stood frozen, staring in wide eyed panic at his fingers, which were still balled into a fist.

oooooooooooo

"So, Martin." Carolyn leaned back in her chair, feeling that it had all turned out rather splendidly. "It seems like you owe me."

This was due to the fact that only moments before, Morris had come in, dripping blood from a broken nose and screaming blue murder about how he wasn't going to be treated like this and demanding Carolyn fire Douglas and Arthur and have Martin barred _immediately _or he would quit. He quit.

"What?" Martin's pulse clearly had yet to return to normal, all his movements were sharp and jerky still. "No I don't!"

"Oh, but you do. My captain has just quit because you punched him on the nose."

"Yes, but I only did that because I was so worried about Douglas hitting him!"

Douglas couldn't help laughing at this. He had privately decided that Martin had a curved apex of panic, reached when the younger man got so very flustered he transcended into a state of cool action, and then, as he calmed down, fell back into panic again. This theory would certainly explain how he had managed to land Gerti while projectile vomiting and perhaps the bizarre logic which had presented the solution that it thought best: In order to stop Douglas from punching Morris, Martin would have to do it himself. Well, it had worked- in a way.

"Does this mean you're the captain again, Skip?" Arthur asked, quite enjoying the drama.

"No." Martin said.

"Yes." Carolyn said. "I'm sorry Martin, but you don't have a choice. You've just chased my only other option away. Anyway, you obviously want to come back, so why don't you?"

"In case you've forgotten, Carolyn, I nearly killed everyone on board." He sank into a chair, dejected.

"And yet here we are, still more or less in one piece." She said. "Yes, alright, you made a mistake and so did I by letting you fly, but I have a better suggestion. Martin, you come back to MJN and I promise that neither of you will ever be allowed to fly solo again."

"Me?" Douglas interrupted. "Carolyn, I'm perfectly capable-"

"No." She cut him off. She was a bulldozer now, working towards her goal. "And, Martin? How many days do you work at the museum?"

"What?" Martin looked up, puzzled. His heart was starting to thud, in a painful, embarrassed happiness. It was beginning to believe he was going to go back. "Three days a week. I'm on a twenty-two and a half hour contract."

"Good." Carolyn said. "Then I'll work around your shifts, as long as you realise that for the other 145 and a half hours a week, you're mine."

"Really?" Martin could almost feel the possibilities opening up before him. He would, as long as he was careful, manage to keep his new flat. He wouldn't have to go back to the student house or the van, or leave a job he liked. If Carolyn really would work around his job, flying for MJN Air might actually be viable.

"Yes, well, I've just lost one pilot, I don't want to lose another because he's either malnourished or homeless." Carolyn dismissed. "But before you agree to any overtime at the shop, you run it past me, understood?"

"Yes!"

"Good."

And Martin realised that he had somehow ended up agreeing to come back, even though he hadn't explicitly done so. He also found he didn't mind.

"Hooray!" Arthur cheered. "Everything can finally go back to normal."

"Wait, hold on." Douglas couldn't forgive himself if he didn't ask. "Martin, what will your girlfriend think of you coming back?"

"What girlfriend?"

"Ah." Douglas said. "Yes, Arthur. Everything is back to normal."

oooooooooooo

"Okay, Martin, a nice easy one to get you back into the swing of it."

It had been several hours since the drama at the airfield, and they had decided to celebrate Martin's re-initiation by sharing a few drinks in The Burnt Oak, Fitton's least disgusting pub, where Martin had got slightly drunk with Liz just a few nights before. He was taking it easy just in case, sticking mainly to the soft drinks with Douglas and Arthur. But now Douglas wanted to play a word game.

"Not now." He said.

"Oh, come on, I promise it'll be one even you can do. What about… Towns and cities that begin and end with the same letter?"

"No, Douglas, I'm not-"

"Oslo." He paused. "Warsaw. Come on, Martin, it really _is _easy."

"Alright. Um…"

"Newtown."

"Um…"

"St Ives."

"Ah, of course. Um…"

"Lostwithel."

"Douglas, it's not fair if you've obviously thought of them before we started!"

"I haven't, I only thought of the game just now. St Agnes!"

"Are you just going round Cornwall in your head?" Martin sighed. "Oh, Nuneaton!"

"Yes, good one." Douglas paused, already bored. He often was, once Martin had scored a point. "So what happened, then? To you and this girl you were going about with?"

"We weren't going about." Martin sighed. "She's going about. To Manchester. She didn't want to start a _thing_."

"Oh. Still, never mind. Plenty more where that came from." He gestured over to the bar. "That brunette, for instance. She's just sitting there waiting for someone to buy her a drink."

"I did think that." Martin confessed. "But… well, you know how I get with women."

"Yes, unfortunately."

Even so, Douglas could see Martin was tempted. All he needed was a little help, and Douglas was the man to provide it. He had a plan that was nearly, he thought, Martin-proof. "Martin, listen to me. Go over there and chat to her, but when she asks what you do for a living, don't say you're a pilot. Tell her you work in a shop."

"Really?" Martin frowned. "But… being a pilot is much more impressive, isn't it?"

"Yes, and that's why you tell her it's your hobby."

"But shouldn't I-?"

"Just trust me and try it!"

Martin did, and came back smiling. Douglas smiled back in satisfaction.

"What did I tell you? Did you get her number?"

"No."

"What?! Martin, I give up on you, I really do."

"No, she offered it to me, but… it didn't seem fair to lead her on." He had, Douglas noticed, come back with a pint, which he swirled moodily. "I know all about being lead on."

Douglas bit his tongue to hold back a comment and even resisted the urge to give Martin a clip round the ear. He couldn't stand pity parties.

"It'll all work out." He said, finally.

"I'm not so sure." Martin sighed. Then his phone started ringing, and it was Liz. Martin gawped at Douglas, wondering how he had done it. "Does everything just do what you say just to make sure you're right all the time?" He asked.

"I should wait and see what happens when you answer it first."

Martin decided this was good advice and stepped outside of the pub, answering it with a peculiar feeling, a kind of positive foreboding. He felt like it was just one more thing that had to go right today, one more thing to make it perfect.

"Hello?" He said cautiously.

"Hello, Icarus Removals?" Liz's voice came, uncharacteristically nervous. "I was wondering if I could book you for a job."

"Well, that depends on the job. We were shutting down." Martin said.

"Oh, really? I was wondering if you could help me move up to Manchester on Saturday."

There was a pause while Martin thought about what to say. He couldn't keep doing this.

"I don't know." He said, stubbornly. "The thing is, I've heard that once you help someone move, you're _friends _for life."

"Whoever told you that is incredibly, unreservedly an idiot." Liz said, without hesitation. "I was really hoping you could help me, Martin. There's a very important _thing _I need your help with."

"In that case," Martin said slowly, waiting for the catch. There didn't seem to be one. "In that case, I suggest you get yourself down to the Oak as soon as possible and start being very, very nice to me, and then we'll see what we can do."

Business concluded, Martin turned to go back into the pub, but not before he paused to catch his breath in the evening chill. He needed a second to process everything, bit by bit.

He was a pilot again. Still not getting paid, but a pilot, doing what he loved, what he was born to do. And he had another job, which he also loved, which meant he could (just about) afford to do the flying.

He had his own place, at last. It wasn't a very big place or anything fancy, and it was rented rather than owned, but it was his. He had more than one room and there were no students in them, and it was much warmer than the attic. That made a nice change.

And, it would seem he had- or very nearly had- an actual shot at a relationship. Not a perfect one; it was hard to know how they would keep it going with her moving away and his working all the time, but they had a chance. A chance was good enough for him. No, he didn't need much, just a little chance at happiness.

Martin was so used to having to grab onto those chances only to watch them slip through his fingers he was quite surprised to find one had drifted down and landed gently in his hands. He wouldn't let it go this time. He smiled, turned around and went back inside to join his friends from MJN Air.

**The End**

oooooooooooo

A/N: There! Hope you all enjoyed it, thanks for reading :) I couldn't not have a happy ending, of course. XD But word games are hard, even the easy ones. Writing a fic that isn't too dialogue-heavy when it's a fic of a radio show is even harder, hence why I largely failed on that front. I would however like to say special thank yous to Blackthorn14, with whom I RPd the original concept, and to my dear previously-mentioned sister Ashtrees, who provided constant consultation and a lot of good ideas, especially the funny ones.

On that note, Ashtrees was rather vocal in her opinion of how the Morris/Martin showdown _should _have gone. She was so vocal, I eventually wrote it for her. So here, for your bonus viewing pleasure, is a rather silly alternate ending:

"_Morris didn't bother to call in at the portacabin when he got back to the airfield because that, no doubt, was what they were expecting him to do. He would return the files later, after Douglas' undoubtedly incomplete log book had been sent off to the CAA. It wasn't that Morris was malicious, it was simply that Douglas Richardson was a plague to the skies that needed to be purged. Attitudes like his were outdated, dangerous. He had seen the log book on the top shelf of the flight deck locker and that was where he headed, sure that the book would be lying there undisturbed. He unlocked the door and went in._

_ Abruptly, the light switched on. Morris, dazed by the sudden glare, could see only in silhouette what was happening as the Captain's chair- his chair- swung round, containing a lithe figure he had heard of only in legends._

_ "Hello, Morris." Said the figure. "I hear you've been taking care of my plane." _

_ Morris blinked his watering eyes, and the figure turned into someone he had only ever heard about in the legends of MJN Air. There was no doubt in his mind who this was._

_ "Martin Crief." He said. "So. We finally meet." _

_ Martin didn't drop his gaze, looking steadily at Morris as he slowly unbuttoned his Ducksford Air Museum shirt, only to suddenly throw it aside in distaste. Beneath it, triumphantly revealed, was the four-striped sleeves and shirt of a pilot, the MJN ensigna a beacon of glory on his chest. Martin reached over Morris' shoulder, to the hook on the back of the locker, and put on his hat._

_ "That's Captain Martin Crief to you." He said. "Now, stand aside." _

_ And Morris did. He couldn't compete with a man in uniform."_

That's about all from me! Thank you and goodnight! :) 


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